


The President's Wife

by thelilging



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Domestic Disputes, F/M, First Lady Clarke Griffin, Gun Violence, Mild Language, President Finn Collins, Scandal, Secret Service Agent Bellamy Blake, White House, rating may change hehehe, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilging/pseuds/thelilging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At thirty, Clarke Griffin-Collins is one of the youngest First Ladies of the United States ever. From the outside, she and her husband seem to have the perfect marriage.<br/>Enter Bellamy Blake, army vet and the First Lady's new Head of Security. </p><p>Things are about to get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Charlotte Peters, TIME Reporter: In your past two years at the White House, your husband has taken some very proactive and controversial steps in politics. Do you two discuss politics at the dinner table?_

_Clarke Griffin-Collins, First Lady of the United States: It would be impossible not to! I think the majority of Americans understand how all-consuming having any career is, and being the President is just like that. We talk about our days, and our days are centered around politics. It's important to keep a balance, of course. It's so nice—we live above his office, so Finn's around everyday. It's wonderful._

_CP: Speaking of keeping a balance, you have recently been very proactive about conquering America's obesity epidemic. How do you manage to stay in shape with such a busy schedule?_

_C G-C: As I said earlier, it's important to keep a balance. Portion control. And flattering clothing helps, too! As I've been reminding America's youth, there are so many easy ways to stay active. I love incorporating basic physical activities into my daily routine! Sometimes I'll take the dog for a walk. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Some days I'll scrub down as many bathrooms as I can get my hands on and call that my workout for the day. The staff can't decide if they appreciate my cleaning or if it stresses them out!_

_CP: [Laughs] How many people are on your staff?_

_C G-C: Roughly ninety-five. Isn't that crazy? We're so grateful for everyone around the house. Finn and I have made a point to really try to connect with everyone. I'll ask about their kids, see what the wife has been up to. We're like a big family!_

_CP: And that brings me to the the question everyone's been waiting for... Can we expect any First Children in the near future?_

_C G-C: [Laughs]_ That's _your most pressing issue? We'll see where the future takes us. Finn and I are so happy where we're at. We're in no hurry._

***

Clarke Griffin-Collins is beyond angry. She's furious. She's on the warpath. Her blood boils in her veils, and everything she sees is red.

Her heels click sharply against the plush carpet as she stalks towards the Oval Office. In her shaking hands, she clutches a rolled up copy of her Time Magazine cover. Thankfully, her murderous expression seems to ward off everyone she passes, and they give her a wide berth as she storms down the middle of the hallway.

Octavia, the President's secretary, jumps when the door slams into the wall behind it, signaling the First Lady's entrance. “Finn isn't in, Clarke-”

“Will you give us the room?” Clarke barks at the Secret Service agents.

They exit without comment, shutting the door softly behind them.

Clarke swivels on her heel to face Octavia and throws her magazine down on Octavia's dark brown desk. “Have you seen this?” she growls.

Octavia raises a sculpted eyebrow at her best friend. “It's a nice picture of you on the front...”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “But did you _read_ it?”

“No, Clarke,” Octavia says with exaggerated patience. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear primly. “I didn't. Do you want to paraphrase it for me?”

“In every interview,” Clarke snarls, choosing to ignore Octavia's thinly veiled sarcasm, “my husband gets asked about foreign policy. He gets asked about new legislation and prisoners of war and the economy. What do I get asked about?”

Octavia waits patiently. She's sat through enough of Clarke's rants to know when her friend wants an actual answer and when the questions are rhetorical.

“I get asked about how I stay in shape and when I'll be popping out babies!” Clarke snarls. “They don't care that I graduated at the top of my class at Yale! They don't care that I was the one who planned Finn's entire presidential campaign! They don't ask how I feel about Guantanamo Bay or ISIL! Do you know why, Octavia?”

Yet again, Octavia remains silent.

“They don't ask me about the serious things,” Clarke says, blinking away tears, suddenly vulnerable, “because I'm a woman. And despite every sacrifice I have made for my husband, for my _country_ , all that's important is when I'll have a baby.”

***

Sinclair has been in charge of Clarke's detail since the day Finn got elected. He rarely says much of anything to her, but she's become used to his constant presence. She has amused herself many times by having inappropriate conversations with Octavia while Sinclair is in earshot and watching a bright red blush overtake his ears. He's like her own personal security blanket. Whenever he's around, she feels a little bit safer.

And then one day he doesn't show up. In his place stands a younger agent. His dark hair is scruffy, like he rolled out of bed and came straight to work, and he looks like he's struggling to stifle a yawn as Clarke debates between several centerpieces for that night's dinner with dignitaries from some random periphery country. (She completely understands his inclination for yawning. This is _so_ not what she signed up for.)

“Who're you?” Clarke asks him sharply. She remembers herself, turning to the woman from the florist. “These are all wonderful! Do you think I could have a little while to debate?”

The woman smiles broadly before she is escorted from the room by Clarke's assistant.

Clarke turns back to Sinclair's replacement. “Who are you?” she repeats. Her tone is a sharp contrast to the honeyed way she spoke to the florist.

“Agent Blake, Ma'am,” he answers. Unlike some of the other members of her security detail, he doesn't look starstruck at the thought of talking to the First Lady. He looks rather put out by it, to be honest.

“Where's Sinclair?”

“Not here.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. Against her better judgment, she's rather impressed that this new agent had the balls to talk to her so sarcastically. “So you don't know,” she summarizes.

“No, Ma'am.”

“Do you have experience in this field?”

“They don't let just anybody guard the First Lady.”

He has a good point. “Well, good. I expect only the best from my security detail, Agent Blake.”

Blake nods.

“Which centerpiece is your favorite?” she asks him.

A small snort escapes him. “I'm afraid I don't know much about Egypt's views on flower arrangements.”

Clarke sighs. “That makes two of us.”

***

Clarke wears a navy dress to the dinner. It's less intimidating and severe than black, yet still classy and flattering. At least that's what the note left on its hanger said. Octavia has been helping her out with the fashion aspect of being the First Lady for the past two years. Because, you know, heaven forbid she causes some sort of international incident because of her choice in attire. Clarke thinks the dress looks identical to all of the other dresses hanging in her closet, but she lets Octavia have her fun.

Clarke has to keep pinching Finn to keep him awake at dinner. _He probably pregamed,_ she thinks with disgust. He mispronounces one of the dignitary's names and almost refers to their country as Estonia before Clarke quickly interrupts. The thought of the narrowly avoided PR nightmare makes Clarke lose her appetite quickly. 

When the dignitaries finally leave, she turns on her heels and walks to the elevator, leaving Finn in her wake. Bellamy trails behind wordlessly.

“What did you think of the centerpieces?”

Blake shrugs from the corner of the elevator, already becoming accustomed to the First Lady's rather harsh way of speaking. “I don't think you caused an international crisis, if that's what you're asking.”

Clarke looks him up and down. In his suit and tie, Blake looks every bit the part of a Secret Service agent. He has the detached yet annoyed facials down pat already.

“How old are you?”

“I'm afraid that's classified information, Ma'am.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You make me feel old. Christ. Call me Clarke.”

Blake nods his understanding.

“So you're not going to tell me?” she prods.

Blake shakes his head.

The doors to the elevator open quietly.

“Goodnight, Blake,” Clarke says.

“See you in the morning, Ma'am.”

The doors close before Clarke can correct him.

***

“He spoke against abortion?!” Clarke's shriek reverberates against the walls of her office, and it takes everything in Agent Blake not to wince as his eardrums throb.

Clarke has always hated the constant presence of the Secret Service, so it's become routine for her to allow only one agent in her office at a time. She can't focus when she's being watched, she says. As the new head of her security, Blake is the lucky man tasked with the job of keeping watch over the First Lady as she does whatever it is that she actually does at her desk.

Clarke slams a furious fist down on her mahogany desk, her cheeks flushing dangerously. She lets out a string of expletives.

Blake's eyebrows disappear behind his mop of messy curls. 

Clarke seems to remember herself, sending Blake a contrite look. “My apologies, Agent Blake.”

“Trouble in paradise, Ma'am?”

Clarke shoots him a dirty look. “Jesus Christ. I told you not to call me that.”

“I usually just go by Bellamy,” Blake shrugs without thinking, “but that works too.”

Clarke wrinkles her brow and frowns until understanding dawns. Then she does something Blake doesn't expect: she snorts. Her snort turns into a giggle, which turns into a full-on laugh, complete with tears running down her cheeks.

Clarke shakes her head once she manages to get herself under control. “I haven't laughed like that in a while,” she confesses.

“I suppose the job doesn't give you much time for laughter.”

Clarke sobers up quickly at his comment, staring at him thoughtfully.

“Bellamy, huh?”

Blake nods.

“I like it,” she says decisively. “I'll call you Bellamy if you call me Clarke.”

Bellamy nods his acceptance of the pact.

Harper, Clarke's secretary and somewhat friend, pokes her head into Clarke's office. “The President's office called, Clarke,” she says, nodding her head at Blake in greeting. “Your presence is requested.”

Clarke snorts. “Summoned by his royal highness?”

Harper gives Clarke a small, understanding smile before closing the door softly behind her.

Clarke stands, smoothing down her royal blue dress and running a hand over her hair quickly as she steps into her low heels. She looks the part of the First Lady, if she says so herself. “Come on, Bellamy,” she says. “You're about to find out what the rest of your job entails.”

***

As Bellamy finds out a few minutes later, part of his job as the head of the First Lady's security detail is keeping arguments between her and the President under control. Seriously.

He watches in utter amazement as Clarke gives it to the President. Complete with furious hand gestures and creative expletives. He's mildly impressed, if he's being completely honest. Who would've thought that Clarke, the blonde with the sweet smile and expensive pearls, has the balls to engage the President of the United States in a full-on screaming match?

“You knew!” Clarke howls. “You _knew_ what you would do to my agenda when you said that! You moron!”

Finn, with his dark hair hanging loose around his face and dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, looks more like a slimy, ambulance-chasing lawyer than the President of the United States of America in Bellamy's opinion. He's never liked the guy; he voted Democrat at the last election.

Finn takes a long swig of amber liquid, doing his best to ignore his screaming wife.

“All I have asked of you,” Clarke snaps, “is for you to keep yourself from going down in history as the idiot president whose wife did all of the work. And yet every goddamn day you do something like this! Do you know what I'm going to have to do to clean this up?! Do you have any idea what kind of asskissing I'm going to have to do to make up for your moronic comment against abortion?! Do you even _want_ to get reelected?!”

That does it. Finn snaps. His cup hits the wall, shattering on impact. Bellamy jumps, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have any idea who you're screaming at right now, Clarke?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, which Bellamy is beginning to see is her signature move. “My idiot husband?”

“You're bitching at the President of the United States of America!” Finn bellows. “If you can't handle my decisions, then maybe you need to get the hell back to arranging flowers and picking out new china!”

Clarke's mouth drops comically. “I am the _only_ reason you are sitting in this office right now! You would have nothing without me!”

A vein pops in Finn's neck, and he takes a threatening step towards Clarke, his hands fisted tightly.

An alarm goes off in Bellamy's head and he's standing between the couple in half a second, arms crossed and eyes focused on the President.

“Who're you?” Finn snaps.

“The head of your wife's security detail,” Bellamy says calmly. “I would be careful about how you proceed, Mr. President.”

“Get out of my way!” Finn blusters. “This doesn't concern you!”

“It's my job to ensure that no one harms the First Lady, Mr. President,” Bellamy says. “And right now you're putting my job security at risk.”

Clarke huffs from behind him. “We can discuss this more once you've calmed down, Finn,” she says.

She stalks over to the door of the Oval Office, looking over her shoulder to make sure that Bellamy is behind her. Bellamy waits to move until he's sure that Finn won't make any sudden moves towards Clarke before following obediently. Clarke stomps down the hallways, muttering angrily to herself. 

Bellamy's a little afraid of her, although he would never admit to it. He's about twice her size, but he's pretty sure that she could take him down with the force of her glare alone.

“How much do you know about politics?” Clarke asks. Her voice is much calmer now.

“Enough.”

“How much do you know about my husband's politics?”

“Not much,” Bellamy admits.

Clarke sighs and leads him out to the gardens, where she sits on a stone bench. It's chilly, but she doesn't seem to notice the bite to the air. “I suppose you think we're complete monsters, then," she says with a humorless laugh.

Bellamy doesn't say anything, sensing that she isn't finished. He stands beside her, hands in his pockets, scanning their surroundings and listening to her at the same time.

“Finn and I grew up together,” Clarke begins softly. “Our parents were friends. We both came from very traditional southern families. You know the type. Our fathers were in politics, while our mothers stayed at home and took care of the house and the kids. It was very stereotypical. Finn and I attended Yale, although he was there ten years ahead of me, and then went onto law school. It was always just kind of assumed that we would end up married. It seemed like the right thing to do. I knew that I wanted to enter politics, but Finn was just in it to make some money and spend his retirement playing golf in Florida.”

She grimaces, as if considering where to take her story from there. “Our parents were horrified when they realized that I actually planned to have a career of my own. I have no idea what was going through their minds when I was in law school. Knowing them, they probably just thought it was a phase.”

Bellamy frowns down at the blonde woman sitting next to him. From what he's seen of her in the news and in person today, she seems like the last person who would be happy sitting around and tending to a house.

“I haven't always been the girl who will tear the President of the United States a new one without a second thought,” Clarke says with a half-hearted smirk. “I let my mother bully me into putting Finn's political aspirations first. She convinced me that we would get him into office and then worry about my career. He had no motivation to do anything, so I spent my twenties kicking his ass into high-gear.”

Clarke shakes her head with a wry smile. “They didn't realize how good I was at politics. Finn wasn't into it, so I fed him his lines. I was like the puppeteer. It sounds horrible now, but it's the truth. Every major political move of his? I orchestrated it. I'm like a real-life Olivia Pope. I was twenty-eight when my husband became the youngest President ever.

“I didn't really even realize how far we were going to go with Finn. There was always a goal, always a new barrier for us to break through. I'm competitive, and at first it was a rush. I was just trying to prove that we belonged at first. I was young, and I felt like I needed to prove myself to the older members of our party. Conquering politics just seemed natural, until I sat at my husband's inauguration and realized that I should be the guest of honor. Finn hates this. I don't think he even understands half of what goes on around here. And... And all I get to do, now that I've gotten him to the highest office there is, is plan dinners and answer fluffy questions about my clothes and plans for a family.”

Bellamy can't help but pity the woman in front of him. Whereas she had been scarily fierce and demanding in the Oval Office less than an hour ago, her sudden vulnerability has turned her into an entirely different person before his very eyes. Bellamy clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “What, uh, agenda were you talking about earlier? When you and the President were, y'know, hashing things out?”

Clarke looks a little confused, as if she had forgotten that Bellamy was actually there. “I've been really involved in women's rights and equality,” she explains finally. "Closing the gender gap."

Bellamy watches in fascination as her personality seems to change before his eyes yet again. She lights up, sitting up straighter and moving her hands animatedly, as she begins to tell him about her work as First Lady.

“It's all about empowerment. Reproductive rights go hand-in-hand with that. I haven't outright said that I'm pro-choice, mostly because of how it would turn off the goddamn Republicans, but Finn hurt my agenda today when he said that. Some of the more liberal people who were really supportive of my work are going to be less receptive now. And that's not even considering his chances for reelection after that little confession.”

“Aren't you and the President Republicans?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Publicly, yeah. I've been a closet liberal for my entire life, though. I just don't care to rock my family's boat that much. I'm choosing my battles. They'd rather I be a serial killer than a Democrat.”

Bellamy laughs out loud at that.

Clarke smiles slowly after a moment, as if she didn't even realize that her words were funny when they came out of her mouth.

“Why are you standing up there?” Clarke asks with a frown. She scoots over and pats the bench next to her.

Bellamy shakes his head. “I appreciate the gesture, but it's against protocol. I can't get too comfortable.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, heaven forbid you sit down.”

“I have to set an example for the other agents, Ma'am.”

“I hope you're just proving a point. We aren't going back to that.”

Bellamy shrugs.

“What about you, Bellamy Blake?” Clarke asks after a moment. “Did you always know that you wanted to smooth over domestic disputes in the Oval Office?”

Bellamy gives her a small smile, despite how dangerously close they're getting to having a conversation about his personal life. “I think that's where this conversation ends.”

***

Bellamy walks into his favorite bar that night, exhausted from his first whirlwind day at the White House. The bar is noisy, filled with face-painted fans of some football team, all hollering at the giant televisions in unison. It's not a big place, and it seems even smaller with so many people in oversized jerseys packed inside.

“Bellamy! Bellamy, hey!” Octavia waves at him wildly from the booth she has saved for the two of them.

He pushes his way through the crowd until he reaches the booth, where he slides in across from his sister.

“How was your first day?” she asks. Her hair is tied back into a messy ponytail, and she changed from her skirt and cardigan into a flannel shirt and jeans after leaving the White House earlier. She looks about ten years younger. 

“It was crazy,” Bellamy admits. He slips off his coat and takes a sip of Octavia's beer, ignoring how she attempts to bat his hands away.

“What do you think of our charming First Lady?” Octavia asks with a smirk, lowering her voice slightly. It's not like it's necessary, with how noisy the bar is around them, but it's instinct for both of them. It comes with the territory.

“She's... a handful,” Bellamy admits.

Octavia grins. “I think you two will get along great. It takes a special person to try to keep up with her.”

Their waitress comes over and takes his order, flirting shamelessly. Octavia doesn't try to hide her annoyance, but the waitress doesn't spare her a second glance. Bellamy grins smugly at Octavia across the table. His little sister makes a face.

“The First Lady was pissed today about something the President said about abortion,” Bellamy divulges.

Octavia nods knowingly. “Did they have one of their fights?”

“You mean that's a normal occurrence?” Bellamy asks, obvious dread in his voice.

“Yeah,” Octavia admits. “You'd be surprised how creative they can get. Do you remember hearing about how an alarm was set off because of a broken window a few months ago?”

Bellamy nods, faintly remembering hearing something about that in the news. “Didn't they think that some tourist did that to be funny?”

“That's the official story,” Octavia snickers. “He really just miscalculated how hard to throw a paperweight.”

“Damn.”

“Don't look so worried,” Octavia says. “Clarke can hold her own against him. Usually she's the one throwing things.”

“I noticed.”

The two spend the rest of the night catching up on each other and swapping White House stories. They drink a little more than is strictly necessary and cheer with the football fans when their favorite team wins, despite the fact that neither Bellamy nor Octavia are football fans.

Bellamy puts Octavia in a taxi, leaning down to be eye level with her to say goodnight. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow?”

Octavia grins at him. “Better rest up tonight, big brother. Clarke will be on the damage-control warpath tomorrow.”

Bellamy shakes his head in amazement and waits until the taxi is out of sight before beginning to walk the few blocks to his own apartment. As he closes the curtains before bed that night, he catches a glimpse of the White House from his window and pauses, lost in thought. He has a feeling that his life is about to take a dramatic turn. And he's not quite sure how to feel about that.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Bellamy gets to the White House and through security, the First Lady's day is in its third hour. He relieves another agent of his job and stands in the corner of her office, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She looks too young to sit at such a large desk, on the phone discussing policies and hosting dinners and guest lists. With her blonde curls pulled into a messy bun and an oversized Yale sweatshirt draped around her frame, she could pass as an intern. Until, that is, you actually listen to her conversations.

  
“No... Are you being serious right now? Because I seriously hope you're joking... I hope you thoroughly appreciate how much of my time you've just wasted... Christ!”

  
Bellamy can't figure out for the life of him how she doesn't have a terrible reputation amongst the general public. It's not that she has a good one, per se (Bellamy spent all of last night Googling her, but he'll never admit to it), but the First Lady has managed to stay perfectly in the background of her husband's presidency while micromanaging every second of it. The general consensus seems to be that Clarke has done her job as First Lady well, despite the slight controversy, fueled by the conservatives of her party, surrounding her gender equality agenda.

  
Clarke finishes her conversation (“...Pull your head out of your ass, Hillary... Yes, we'll have to get together for lunch sometime... Have a good one.”) before turning to Bellamy and looking him up and down.

  
“Late night?” she smirks. 

Bellamy's a little rumpled and he may be a little hungover, but he'd never readily acknowledge that.  “I could say the same to you, Princess,” he retorts instead. Immediately after the word slips off of his tongue, he begins internally shaking his head at himself. Where did that come from?

  
Clarke raises her eyebrows. “That's a new one.”

  
“If the shoe fits.”

  
“I'm not sure if I prefer 'Princess' or 'Ma'am.”

 

***

 

Octavia was right about Clarke being on damage-control. The First Lady bullies Bellamy into beginning to organize a security detail so that she can visit a Planned Parenthood. She uses social media to praise all of the “strong women” she has had “the incredible pleasure of meeting.” She begins to plan several holiday dinners. One will, naturally, celebrate women who have managed to successfully bridge the gender gap in their fields. It's all very political and very calculated.

  
Bellamy is very impressed.

  
Volunteers and members of the First Lady's staff are in the process of bringing in countless boxes of holiday decorations. (Seriously. This is Bellamy's career.) Some are brand new, fit for Clarke's theme (“Simple things,” she told him primly, “to highlight the fact that the greatest Christmas gifts are the ones that don't cost a thing.”), while others have been hung on the giant White House Christmas trees for countless years. Clarke runs the operation in the same way one would run a military base: fear. And lots of it. Her methods are, unsurprisingly, extremely efficient.

  
Clarke stands over her project, glowering at anyone who dares to step out of line. Although her annoyed expression hasn't changed since she returned phone calls in her office this morning, the First Lady has traded in her sweatshirt in favor of a plain gray sweater, a knee-length navy skirt, and gray oxford heels, complete with a red statement necklace.

 

“What are your views on the empowerment of women?” Clarke barks at him.

  
“I think it's, uh, cool?” Bellamy guesses.

  
Clarke snorts and scribbles something down on her clipboard. “Did you know that there would be up to 150 million fewer hungry people if women farmers had the same access to tools that male farmers do?”

  
“I did not.”

  
“Did you know that men spend more time on leisure activities than women in nearly every country of the world?” she continues.

  
“No.”

  
“Did you know that Russia has the highest percentage of females in senior management? Only 43% of their senior management workforce is women. And that is the highest percentage of any country.”

  
Clarke glares at Bellamy when he doesn't look appropriately ashamed of his status as a male. He thanks his lucky stars when she runs off, momentarily forgetting to lecture Bellamy about his gender, to reprimand a member of her staff who has just dropped a box of delicate ornaments.

  
“Atom! These ornaments have been here since World War II! I told you earlier...”

  
Bellamy shakes his head. Poor Atom. With a name like that, he's probably used to having bad things happen to him. (Starting, of course, with his parents naming him Atom.)

 

***

 

Clarke surprises a White House tour after lunch. Bellamy watches from his post in the doorway as she greets the people with a bright smile. The visitors' laughs echo around the spacious room as she chats them up charmingly.

  
It's easy for Bellamy to zone out as a steady stream of people keep entering. They all go through the same routine: gasp when the see Clarke, hug her or shake her hand, exchange a few pleasantries, get a picture. Clarke slips into her role as the First Lady well, with her heels and demure yet welcoming smile. Maybe she'll be able to make a living in Hollywood once her time as First Lady is over.

  
Bellamy has always had a sixth sense for when something bad is going to happen. It's a major reason for why his stint in the army was so successful and why he was able to get a job so high up in the White House in such a short period of time. He senses the danger, and he does something about it. It's instinctual.

  
That's why, when a middle-aged man walks into the room with a baseball cap sitting low over his eyes and his hands in his bulging pockets, not talking to anyone, Bellamy keeps an eye on him. White House tours generally draw a certain type: starstruck young families from the Midwest, elderly couples who have seen more history than the White House itself, noisy school tours full of disinterested kids. Bellamy watches as the man's eyes widen when he sees Clarke and then take stock of the location of every member of the Secret Service. When he begins to pull a gun out of his pocket, Bellamy has him on the ground before anyone else even realizes that they're in danger.

  
The man is stronger than Bellamy anticipated. Bellamy takes a stinging blow to his right eye as they wrestle, but he gives the man a solid hit in return. When a gunshot rings out in the room, the two both freeze, staring at each other for a infinitesimal moment. _Dear God, please have Clarke be okay._

  
Bellamy's instincts take over, and he slams an unforgiving hand on the man's right wrist. His hand slackens around the gun, giving Bellamy just the right amount of time to take it. In one smooth motion, he cracks the pistol over the man's head. The man stills below him.

  
It all happens in a matter of seconds, and it's not until the actual scuffle is over that people seem to realize what is happening. All hell breaks loose. Children screech, Secret Service agents yell into their earpieces, and the sound of feet slamming against the floor is deafening. The other agents swoop in to aid Bellamy, cuffing the unconscious man and attempting to calm the panicking visitors.

  
“Where's Clarke?” Bellamy demands frantically.

  
In the chaos surrounding him, no one has registered his question. Dozens of security members pour into the room to secure it. Bellamy's head whips around, searching for Clarke.

  
And there she is. She kneels on the floor next to a little girl who lies on her back. One hand is pressed heavily to the girl's shoulder, where a dark red liquid is seeping through Clarke's fingers. A woman stands over them and wails.

  
Bellamy is at Clarke's side in the blink of an eye. “We have to get you out of here.”

  
“Blake, are you out of your goddamn mind?” Clarke snarls. All traces of the reserved First Lady are gone, replaced by genuine Clarke.

  
Everything after that becomes a blur. As soon as Bellamy has other members of the Secret Service taking care of the little girl, he hauls Clarke out of the room. He half-carries her down a long hallway, ignoring her protests, and then into the first room he comes across, locking the door behind them.

 

“What are you doing?!” she shrieks. She tries to shoulder her way past him, but Bellamy stands firm.

  
“We don't know if he's alone.”

  
Bellamy doesn't listen to another word Clarke yells at him throughout the entire lock down. He listens through his earpiece, assuring his coworkers that the First Lady is with him and unharmed. When he's finally certain that they're in the right place to wait out the lock down, he really looks at her for the first time.

  
Her hair has fallen out of the elegant twist it was in earlier. Her hands and skirt are covered in the little girl's blood, and there's a small rip in the shoulder of her sweater. Tears stain her cheeks, mixing with blood in the places where she attempted to wipe them away.

  
“Are you okay?” he asks hoarsely.

  
Clarke stares at him for a moment before crumpling before his very eyes. Her back hits the door, and she slides down until she's sitting on the ground, legs pulled up into her chest. Her shoulders tremble as she sobs into her arms.

  
Bellamy crouches beside her instinctively. He reaches a hand up tentatively to pull her hair out of her face before changing his mind and slipping a hand behind her to rub her back. “It's okay...” he whispers. “Shh, she'll be okay...”

  
When her seemingly endless supply of tears begins to end, Bellamy reaches up onto a table and yanks off the tablecloth. He moves to wipe off her bloody hands with it, but Clarke recoils.

  
“You can't use that,” she says, her voice cracking. “It's been here since the Kennedys.”

  
Bellamy looks from the tablecloth to Clarke and back again. “Screw the Kennedys.”

  
Clarke hiccups out a laugh and allows him to gently wipe the blood off of her hands. “I suppose we can just wash it out with cold water,” she murmurs absentmindedly.

  
“Spend a lot of your time cleaning up murders, Princess?” he asks.

  
Clarke sniffles in response.

  
Bellamy reaches up to wipe the tears and blood off of her cheeks, pausing and waiting for Clarke to give her permission. Clarke looks at him with wide, bloodshot eyes before nodding slowly.

  
Bellamy jumps a little and retracts his hand before he can wipe away her tears when they're interrupted by a small voice in his earpiece announcing the all-clear. Clarke forces out a breathy, nervous laugh.

  
“How do I look?” she asks.

  
“Appropriately battle scarred.” She moves to take the tablecloth from him to swipe at her cheeks, but Bellamy stops her. “If you look a little roughed up, the President's approval ratings are going to skyrocket.”

  
An small smile of approval touches Clarke's lips. “We'll make a politician out of you, Bellamy Blake.”

 

***

 

The little girl survives just fine. The bullet just grazed her shoulder, really, and she looks perfectly happy a couple days later when Clarke and Bellamy, along with several other agents, visit her hospital room, their arms laden with stuffed teddy bears, candies, and souvenirs from the White House. Her mother tearfully embraces Clarke and then Bellamy, recognizing him as the one to disarm the attacker.

  
Bellamy was right about Finn's approval ratings. Photographs of tearful, bloody, and shoeless Clarke are on the cover of every magazine in America. Even their staunchest opponents don't have a single negative thing to say about the First Lady and her quick thinking in a time of crisis.

  
It took everything in Bellamy to allow Finn to embrace his wife upon reuniting for the first time after the attack. It was, naturally, captured on camera for the world to see. Bellamy watched as Finn hugged her tightly, whispering in her ear and kissing the side of Clarke's head. Clarke stood stiffly in her husband's arms, unknowingly soothing Bellamy's raised hackles.

  
“I think everyone has forgotten about his little comment about abortion, don't you?” Clarke mutters to Bellamy one afternoon as she watches yet another news segment on the attack.

  
“I'm guessing you haven't,” Bellamy says from his post at the doorway.

  
“I never forget, Bellamy. That's part of the reason why I'm so good at this god-awful job.”

 

***

 

Her husband is an asshole. That's the only explanation Clarke can come up with for his behavior.

  
After the shooting, he played the part of the concerned husband quite well, if she did say so herself. He threw a royal fit about how someone was able to sneak a gun through the metal detectors, and only years of arguments helped her recognize the hardness in his eyes when he embraced her. Finn might be fooling the cameras, but he wasn't fooling Clarke.

  
And then Finn refused to visit the little girl in the hospital. Seriously. He “didn't want to risk his own life.” As if he was really that necessary to the running of the country. _Please._ Bellamy had to physically carry her out of the room to prevent her from breaking her husband's scrawny little neck when he told her of his cowardly plans to stay away from the hospital.

  
After that, Finn refused to attend her dinner celebrating women making a difference across America. Because it was “sexist against men.” He told her this in an email. Bellamy had to duck to avoid getting nailed in the face by the stapler that just happened to slip out of Clarke's hands when she read Finn's message. She apologized profusely afterward, but she still cringes whenever she remembers it. Not her finest moment.

  
And now Finn has stood her up for dinner.

  
Clarke sits at the table by herself, watching their food get cold in front of her. She glances at the delicate silver watch on her left wrist irritably. Fifteen minutes late. In their entire two years of living in the White House, they've never missed a Sunday night dinner. No matter how little desire either of them has to maintain the tradition, it's, well, a tradition.

  
Once Finn is twenty minutes tardy, Clarke has had enough. She yanks her napkin off of her lap and stomps out to the hallway, where a nameless Secret Service agent stands with his hands folded behind his back. He has the usual appearance of a Secret Service agent: broad shoulders, cropped hair, stony expression, shiny shoes.

  
“Do you know where Agent Blake is?” she asks hotly.

  
“No, ma'am.”

  
“Would you be so kind as to find out?”

  
He lifts his wrist and begins speaking softly into his earpiece. Clarke waits impatiently until he looks back up at her.

  
“He's just finished up with the nightly briefing, ma'am.”

  
“Tell him to come here,” she demands before adding, almost as an afterthought, “please.”

  
Ten minutes later, Bellamy walks in, dressed down in khaki pants and a navy army sweatshirt, to finds Clarke sitting at the table by herself. The china and salads have been switched out for Kraft macaroni and cheese and freezer pizza. (Clarke bullied the chef into stocking up during Finn's first week in office. It was, after all, a necessity for her happiness.)

  
“You rang, your highness?”

  
Clarke looks up and smiles when she sees him. She points to the chair across from her. “Take a seat, Bellamy.”

  
Bellamy looks between her and the chair in confusion. “Am I in trouble?”

  
"No." Clarke rolls her eyes. “You're my date tonight. My asshole of a husband stood me up.”

  
Realization dawns in Bellamy's eyes. Clarke's gaze is steely, daring him to pity her. Instead, he sits down, glancing at his surroundings. The President's Dining Room, which has been restored to a appear similar to how it did during the Kennedy administration, looks about as presidential as a room can. An ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling lights up the Revolutionary War battles depicted on the walls, and even the carpet under his feet is plush.

  
“Do you like what I've done with the place?” Clarke asks. If Bellamy didn't know better, he would call her tone bashful. “I always thought that pictures of it from the 1960's looked so beautiful, so this was the first room I redecorated when we moved in.”

  
“It was a good idea to return it to its roots.” Bellamy's eyes fall on the excessive amount of food in front of Clarke, and he can't help but let out a small laugh. “Mac 'n' cheese? And pizza? Not quite what I was expecting.”

  
“I've been instructed to tell anyone who asks that I held our chef at gunpoint,” Clarke says around a mouthful of mac and cheese. “He was horrified when I sent back our dinners in favor of this.”

  
Bellamy helps himself to pizza, frowning slightly at Clarke. “I would've eaten whatever, you know.”

  
Clarke scowls back at him. “A girl is entitled to her favorite comfort foods when stood up.”

  
Bellamy nods carefully. Clarke looks him up and down. He looks like an entirely different person when dressed like a normal human being. She likes it.

  
“Tell me about yourself, Bellamy Blake.”

  
Bellamy chews slowly as he thinks, watching her in a way that could almost be described as nervous. “What do you want to know?” he asks stiffly.

  
“Anything that'll distract me from how much I messed up my life,” she says humorlessly. She takes a vicious bite of pizza and looks at Bellamy expectantly.

  
“I didn't plan on being a Secret Service agent,” Bellamy blurts out without thinking.

  
“Really?”

  
Bellamy shrugs, suddenly feeling small under Clarke's scrutiny. “I wanted to be a history teacher,” he confides, catching himself by surprise.

  
Not many people know about Bellamy's love for history. It just seems too... personal. On the rare occasion that he has divulged his failed plans, the reactions he has gotten have been rather sympathetic. There's nothing Bellamy Blake hates more than sympathy.

  
“Why aren't you a history teacher then?” Clarke asks.

  
“You need a college education to be one,” Bellamy says. “And to get a college education you need money. So I went into the army instead. I was going to go back to school with the money they gave me.”

  
“Then what happened?”

  
“College just never happened. I was good at my job. Killing people was easy for me.”

  
Clarke furrows her brow thoughtfully. “Why's that?”

  
“Why? Are you scared?”

  
Clarke snorts. “Please.”

  
Bellamy grins across the table at her, despite his general unease about their dinner conversation. Something about Clarke makes him nervous and self-conscious but relaxed and confident at the same time. It's a little bizarre.

  
“I'm good at compartmentalizing, I guess,” he explains thoughtfully. Truthfully, he's never really thought about it all that much. “Stuff like that haunts a lot of people, but I can get the job done. It's a blessing and a curse.”

  
“I wish I had the curse of compartmentalization,” Clarke sighs.

  
Bellamy runs a hand over his hair. Clarke's eyes zero in on the small tremor that runs through his hand.

  
“Is this conversation making you nervous?” she asks. She leans forward, eyes sparkling, and Bellamy suddenly understands what an animal must feel like when a predator marks it for the kill.

  
“Nothing makes me nervous, Princess,” he lies.

  
“Of course not, Mr. Invincible Secret Service Agent.”

  
Bellamy grins. “Okay, I told you my secrets. Time for you to share.”

  
“Please!” Clarke scoffs. “I could have told you that about yourself. You didn't tell me anything that I couldn't have guessed.”

  
“Oh, you think so?”

  
Clarke nods smugly. “I know so.”

  
Bellamy leans back in his seat, waving a hand in front of him. “Well, then, by all means tell me what else you've figured out about me.”

  
Clarke, never one to back down from a challenge, smirks. “You're the oldest child. You're reliable and careful and competitive. That's why you're in charge of babysitting me at such a young age. You're, what, thirty-three?”

  
“How'd you know that?” Bellamy scowls, a bit put out at her accuracy so far.

  
“Secret Service agents are typically complete six to eight years on the job assigned to a field office. Then they're transferred to a protective assignment for three to five years,” Clarke rattles off. “I can tell just by looking at you that you take your job seriously. You arrive every day exactly on time, down to the very minute. I'm assuming that you completed your work in a field office in six years, maybe less, and then moved onto a protective assignment for a couple years. That would put you at eight years in the Secret Service. If you were in the military for about seven years, which is about the right amount of time to move up in the ranks at an impressive speed, you'd be thirty-three.”

  
Bellamy hates to admit it, but Clarke is spot-on. “What else can you tell about me?”

  
“You don't wear a wedding ring,” Clarke says impulsively. It has been nagging at the back of her mind for longer than she cares to admit, but she regrets the words as soon as she blurts them out.

  
They make eye contact, and Bellamy struggles to keep a grin off of his face as her ears redden in embarrassment. “You were checking,” he realizes slowly.

  
It's a statement, not a question. Clarke's blush has moved into her cheeks, and Bellamy can't contain his slightly cocky grin.

  
“I make my staff's personal lives my business,” Clarke insists.

  
“Whatever you say, Princess.” Bellamy leans back in his seat, hands behind his head confidently. “Please, continue.”

  
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Where was I? You haven't had a serious girlfriend in a long time. You're a workaholic, judging by how fast you were promoted to this assignment. And you're scared of dogs.”

  
Bellamy sputters on his water at the last item on her list. “Sorry?”

  
“You do everything you can to stay away from the dogs that we have patrolling the house,” Clarke laughs, obviously proud of her assessment of Bellamy. “I'm not blind. I just haven't figured out if you're scared because of a previous experience or because of lack of exposure.”

  
“You weren't kidding when you said you were observant.”

  
“I need something to distract myself from all of the stupid politics. So, what is it? Why are you scared?"

"My dad's girlfriend had a pitbull," Bellamy confesses. "It bit me when I was little. Bad memories." He leans forward, determined on refocusing the subject matter on something less traumatizing. “Alright, Princess, you wanna know what I've figured out about you?”

 

_No._

  
“Yes.”

  
“You're a caretaker. That's why you're still married to our, forgive me, needy child of a President. You thought you could fix him up. You fixed him enough to squeeze him into the Oval Office, but you can't mold him into a good husband. And that pisses you off. When that little girl was shot? You were the one by her side, keeping her from bleeding out, even when the shooter wanted to hit you more than anybody else.”

  
Something dangerous creeps into Bellamy's eyes, and Clarke licks her lips, her throat dry.

  
“You like to be in control. At all times. If you were a man, you'd be considered a leader. Large and in charge, and all of that. But you're a woman, so people think you're bossy and demanding.” His voice drops to be impossibly lower, his words almost a whisper. All traces of humor have disappeared. “Which is hot as hell if you ask me. But you wanna know my theory? Part of the reason why you're so wound up is because your husband isn't enough of a man to take charge of things where it really matters.”

  
The look in his eyes tells Clarke _exactly_ what Bellamy is talking about. She's fairly certain her entire body has flushed a bright, unflattering shade of red. But _damn_.

  
The door bursts open, revealing a slightly breathless Octavia. She falters somewhat, looking back and forth between Bellamy and Clarke, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly as she senses the undeniable tension in the dining room.

  
“Heyyy, guys,” she says uncertainly. “The Secret Service let me up.”

  
“Hey, O,” Bellamy replies.

  
Clarke looks across the table from him in shock. How is he acting normal right now when she feels like she was just caught with her hand in the candy jar?

  
“I was just coming to find you, Bell,” Octavia says, still looking around the room suspiciously.

  
“Wait,” Clarke interrupts. “How do you two know each other?”

  
Bellamy and Octavia exchange an amused glance.

  
“O's my little sister,” Bellamy explains. “She put in a good word for me here.”

  
“Oh, shut up,” Octavia laughs. “I guess you already ate, so we can just reschedule?”

  
Bellamy glances down at his empty plate guiltily. “Shit, sorry. I forgot about our plans.”

  
“We were just finishing,” Clarke interrupts quickly. She stands and takes her and Bellamy's plates, giving the brother and sister duo a large, false smile. “You two have a good night! It was interesting getting your take on things, Bellamy. Thanks for keeping me company.”

  
She walks out of the room as fast as she can without breaking into a jog.

 

***

 

Finn snores. Usually Clarke manages to ignore it with the help of some earplugs and a melatonin supplement, but tonight she lies on her back until the wee hours of the morning, running her conversation with Bellamy over and over again in her head on an endless loop.

  
It was... interesting (aka hot.But Clarke is _not_ thinking that. Nope. Not at all).

  
Bellamy was right. Her sex life with Finn is basically nonexistent, and even when things do happen they too exciting for either of them. It is, as terrible as it sounds, just another one of her duties as First Lady. She had pretty much accepted it—maybe sex just isn't her thing. Maybe romantic relationships just aren't for everyone. Politics gives her a much bigger rush, after all. And that has to be saying something.

  
But _damn_. Her conversation with Bellamy had just teetered on the edge of inappropriate, leaving her more hot and bothered than she has been in years. Which is completely ridiculous. She's a grown woman! She's the First Lady of the United States! No one should have this much of an effect on her. Much less Bellamy Blake.

  
Finn lets out an especially loud snore, and Clarke glances over at her husband. He looks much more peaceful when asleep, and the sight of him, so trusting and naive, makes Clarke feel guilty almost immediately. Granted, she hadn't even come close to crossing the line of infidelity, but just the thought of it makes her feel dirty. She has always looked down upon people who can't manage to stick beside their spouses in times of difficulty. Running the country in such an unconventional partnership, she figures, is about as difficult as marriage can get.

  
Finn is difficult. He tries her patience and isn't fit to carry this impossible job on his shoulders, but he needs her. He physically can't do the job without her assistance. Who would brief him in the morning before his meetings as she knots his ties? And discuss the best method for dealing with radical religious groups as Finn brushes teeth in the morning? Keep him from making embarrassing gaffes in front of important foreign dignitaries?

  
Clarke throws back the covers and pads to the bathroom, where she shuts the door quietly and stares at herself in the mirror. How did she get to this place? With her hair wild and tangled from rolling around in bed and face makeup-free, she could pass off as a girl just barely beyond her teenage years. She doesn't look worthy of the immense pressure of the presidency and her role as First Lady, but, as she stares at herself in the mirror, she comes to a realization that should have come a long time ago: she's the only one who can keep this ruse afloat. She has no doubt that, without her, Finn's presidency will go up in flames as he is ridiculed and humiliated. And she won't do that to her husband. She can't.

  
So Bellamy Blake has to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Dang, Bellamy, you reckless!  
> Thank you to everyone who left the awesome comments! They are so much fun to read :)  
> Thoughts? Questions? Clarifications? Suggestions?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!  
> This could've been up on Saturday, but I was stranded at a relative's house without wifi. I don't ever wish to repeat that traumatic experience. I don't know how they do it. I really don't.  
> I did, however, have time to read the The 100 book. Yikes... Did anyone think it was as cringe-worthy as I did?  
> Also! This is a political story (kind of), and there's some news in the political world! Rand Paul? Thoughts?

CHAPTER THREE

Bellamy is nervous for work. Nervous isn't the right word, he contemplates as he mindlessly goes through White House security. Terrified is a better representation of the way his adrenaline is pumping through his veins. 

Shit. He hasn't been nervous about talking to a girl since middle school. 

Bellamy nods at the guards on either side of the final entrance to the White House and tugs at his skinny black tie before going about the rest of his routine without putting any thought into it. If asked to recall exactly what he did that morning, it would all be a blur. 

Bellamy finds Clarke pacing in her office with Finn, who sits in on a pale yellow couch with his head in his hands. Bellamy opens his mouth, unsure of what he's going to say, but then Clarke turns and faces him. He's no fool, and the blank look she gives him says it all. Every bit of nervous energy seeps out of him, leaving him numb.

“What do you know about Sterling Morgan?” Clarke asks brusquely. 

Bellamy falters, thrown off by her tone. “Who's that?”

“American soldier deployed in the Middle East. Suspected deserter, but that's unconfirmed classified information as of right now,” she answers, tossing a file down on her desk in disgust. “He's now a POW of our favorite terrorist organization, according to a video that came out a couple hours ago. We think it's from their camp, but our people are analyzing the footage right now to determine for sure if we can blame the organization for his disappearance and to see if we can pinpoint the exact origin of the video.”

Finn runs his hands over his face wearily. His white button down is wrinkled, and it's clear from the shadows across his face that he hasn't shaved recently. “We can't just let that soldier rot there, Clarke,” he groans. “He's one of our own.”

“'The United States doesn't negotiate with terrorists',” Clarke quotes firmly, uncharacteristically quiet. Her expression is unreadable. 

“The people are going to riot!” Finn argues, gesturing wildly with his hands. Bellamy tenses, mentally preparing himself to have to break up another argument. “Have you seen the news? They're already on the verge of storming the White House and offering us up as an exchange.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “That's a bit of an exaggeration.”

At Bellamy's questioning look, Clarke uses the black remote sitting on her desk to turn on the news, which is in the middle of showing a tearful white-haired woman being interviewed in front of a large crowd of protestors, complete with signs and everything.

“The family certainly knows how to manipulate the media,” Clarke murmurs as a tear drips down Sterling's mother's cheek. Clarke shakes her head slightly, as if breaking herself out of a trance, and turns back to Bellamy. “You were in the army. What's your take on this?”

Finn looks at Bellamy for the first time, his jaw clenched slightly. “Do tell.”

“You want my opinion?”

“We're going into a meeting about this in a few minutes,” Clarke says with a brief nod, “and I don't know what to expect. I'm not prepared for a situation like this. Any insight you can provide would be helpful.”

Bellamy stifles a laugh at her use of pronouns, daring to tentatively glance at Finn. It's impossible to tell what the President is thinking at how little Clarke seems to take his opinions into account. “I can't form a decent opinion until I have the whole story,” he says. “But you can't negotiate. Period. Even if this man has to die because of that, you can't back down.”

“Utilitarian judgment,” Clarke agrees darkly. 

“We can't do that!” Finn argues loudly. “You've seen the videos of all of the beheadings. We could do something to prevent that from happening again. This time we know ahead of time. We could save this guy.”

Clarke opens her mouth to respond, but Bellamy beats her to it. “If you start negotiating to get this guy back home, then terrorist groups are going to purposely kidnap more Americans in the hope of getting to exchange them for their people whom we hold captive. If you keep negotiating, we'll end up closing Guantanamo Bay just because of lack of necessity. We might as well just release all of the prisoners now! And you can't forget about the families of the kidnapped Americans. They'll expect you to negotiate to get their loved ones home, just like you did with our good friend Sterling. This man might not make it through this ordeal, but his death will keep countless of internationally traveling Americans safe from being kidnapped themselves.”

Finn swallows, shaking his head slowly. “I-I get where you're coming from. But it doesn't sit well with me. What about his family? I-I can't imagine.”

Clarke reaches over and rests a hand on Finn's shoulder, her blue eyes lifting up to meet Bellamy's over her husband's head. “Thank you,” she mouths. 

Bellamy nods curtly and steps to his regular position, effectively blending into the background. Clarke didn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. Her hand on Finn's shoulder says it all. Bellamy knows his place. 

 

***

 

Raven Reyes is good at her job. Plain and simple. 

The Vice President waves to the crowd as they applaud her speech at a brunch for military families in Washtington, DC, soaking up their approval, before moving off of the stage to mingle and pose for photos. Whereas she used to dread small talk, having Finn Collins as her running mate in the last election made her a pro at the flatter-and-move-along technique; Finn was awkward at it, and his wife, who, as the future First Lady was supposed to be the one to seamlessly smooth over those uncomfortably long pauses in conversation, was even worse. So the job went to Raven. 

Privately, Raven likes to credit herself with winning the Presidential race for Finn. After all, it was her husband, a respected man of high military ranking, who was killed by Middle Eastern religious extremists and whose body was displayed for the world to see in one of those horrifying videos. It was understandably dreadful and threw the entire campaign for a dramatic loop, but it certainly endeared them to voters. 

Raven was only forty-one when she became a widow and the first female Vice President in a matter of months. For whatever reason, the media has seemed to take her under their protective wing. Negative articles about her are surprisingly rare, and she has gained an unprecedented level of respect in Washington, DC, where she is also the President of the US Senate. Not that she actually has to do anything there, but still. People like her, for whatever reason. 

Raven is in the middle of chatting with a fifty-something woman whose son has just left for the Middle East when her scruffy, smirking, infuriating Chief of Staff tugs on her elbow impatiently.

“What, Wick?” she asks. Her startlingly white smile remains plastered on her face, but her voice has an edge to it. It's common knowledge among her staff that the Vice President is not to be interrupted when talking to military families. It's just rude to do so. 

“Your presence has been requested at a National Security Council meeting,” Wick murmurs in her ear. “Another soldier has been captured.”

Raven nods curtly. “Tell the White House that I will be there as soon as my military brunch is finished.”

Wick looks as though he's going to protest, but Raven turns back to the woman with a smile, carefully smoothing down her blazer and slim-fitting charcoal business dress. “Now, you were talking about your son...”

Wick turns back to the rest of the Vice President's staff, shaking his head. They're unsurprised of Raven's refusal to cut her time with the families short; her insistence upon speaking with every single person has earned her respect among the people, but notoriety among her staff. They've learned to schedule her plenty of extra time between engagements. 

“Tell them to give us an hour,” Wick orders, a hint of a sarcastic smile pushing at the corners of his mouth. “Matters of national security can wait for the VP.”

 

***

 

When Raven finally arrives, the Situation Room is somber. She nods at Finn, who sits at the head of the table, before slipping out of her black blazer taking her usual seat to his left, directly across from Clarke, the first First Lady to ever insist upon and be allowed to sit in on meetings of the National Security Council. 

The muted flat-screen at the front of the room plays the video of Sterling Morgan on a loop. The National Security Council's executives, the Director of National Intelligence, the President's National Security Advisor, the Director of the CIA, and the Secretary of State, sit in their usual spots in plush black leather chairs around the table, watching the video and murmuring to each other over their cups of coffee. Bellamy Blake and the Head of the President's Security stand on either side of the door, hands clasped behind their backs and expressions neutral. 

“What's the latest update?” Raven asks. Wick had filled her in on their ride from the military brunch as she slipped from her black heels into a pair of flats, but their information had likely become outdated several times over during her walk from the car to the Situation Room.

Lincoln, the President's National Security Advisor, swivels in his chair to face Raven. With his closely cropped hair, permanently serious expression, and tight-fitting suits, he's damn good looking. But that's definitely eclipsed by how fucking intimidating the man is, if the Vice President says so herself. 

“Sterling Morgan is the only man in the video except for a hand of one of his captors,” Lincoln says neutrally, “so it's difficult to tell if it's the same group who has been responsible for the beheadings of several American tourists and members of the media. Judging by the quality of the video, it was shot on a very similar device to the other videos, if not the same device.”

Raven swallows thickly, her mind drifting back to the video of her late husband's body.

“You don't have to be here, Raven,” Finn speaks up. It's as though he has read her mind, “if this is too difficult for you.”

“No,” Raven says sharply, shooting Finn a stubborn look. “I'm fine. Continue, Lincoln.”

“Morgan mentioned an attack that we have confirmed to have happened on the day this video was made,” Lincoln says. “They show his dog tags, so we know it's Morgan.

“Our main concern,” he continues, “is how to best react to this. If possible, we'd like to get this man out alive. But we can't negotiate for a trade, obviously, and the logistics of sending in a rescue team aren't reasonable at this time. We simply don't have enough information to risk the lives of our soldiers in the hopes of bringing one man home. We don't know the exact location, if he's even still alive, or what kind of a guard they have around him. In addition, the public has taken to his case tremendously, so we have to tread carefully there, too.”

“So basically this is one giant clusterfuck,” Raven mutters. She pulls her long brown hair into a messy ponytail and glowers at Sterling Morgan, who stares back at her from the screen.

“To be frank,” Clarke says. “I don't see how we can do much of anything besides wait and offer our support to the family. If this is the same group we've dealt with before, which I'm almost certain it is, we can expect more videos. They'll have some sort of a demand. They'll tell us what they want. We just have to wait it out.”

Lincoln nods his agreement. “In the meantime, we'll need to officially verify his identity and issue a statement concerning how he was vulnerable to capture. My gut tells me that we're dealing with a deserter, but find out for sure. We'll have to make our disapproval known, but don't make any unofficial statements. My best advice is to be conservative with this. Try not to piss off too many people.”

His gaze flits unabashedly between Raven and Clarke, a clear warning. Clarke's take-no-prisoners attitude and affinity for making smart but rather rash decisions without the approval of the rest of National Security Council has earned her a reputation among the Council's other members. And Raven has been known to let a bit of information or two slip when talking. Nothing serious, but Lincoln doesn't trust either of them, no matter how brilliant they may be. Women.

“So basically we aren't doing anything?” Finn clarifies. 

Clarke struggles not to roll her eyes. 

“No,” Lincoln says firmly, glancing around the table to get the approval from everyone in attendance. “We're not.”

 

***

 

The Pentagon officially confirms Sterling Morgan's identity the next day, and the U.S. Command in the Middle East condemns Sterling's kidnapping as violation of international law. Twitter explodes with thousands of tweets every minute weighing in on the Sterling Morgan case. The number of news outlets stationed at the outside of the White House has reached an all-time high.

Finn speaks at a Press Conference in response to the overwhelming number of protests across America. Bellamy watches Clarke out of the corner of his eye as she mouths the words of his speech along with him, occasionally scribbling hurried notes in a small notebook on her lap.

“We rehearsed this,” Clarke murmurs with a small shrug when she catches Bellamy looking.

Clarke meets with Sterling's parents later that afternoon. She ignores Bellamy's advice and meets them on the front lawn, in full view of the cameras waiting outside the gates of the White House.

Sterling Morgan's mother is a petite, graying old lady with hands that shade when she meets Clarke. His father, a tall man who wears slim-fitting trousers and a jacket that looks older than Clarke, surveys the White House with keen, unimpressed gray eyes. 

Bellamy is nervous during the entire meeting. The parents don't seem very impressed by Clarke's always on-point First Lady charisma, and Bellamy keeps waiting for the elderly woman to pull a gun or something. He doesn't breathe easy until Clarke gives the couple a final hug, wiping away empathetic tears from her eyes, and waves them out the door. 

Clarke catches him watching her as they walk through the halls. “What?” she asks harshly. 

“That was quite a show,” he mutters. 

Clarke stops mid-step and rounds on him. “You think I was acting?”

Shit. “Were you, uh, not?”

“Do you seriously believe that I had to pretend to sympathize with people whose son has been captured by an unreliable Middle Eastern terrorist group that is responsible for multiple videos in which they behead innocent Americans?” Her voice rises steadily until the First Lady is outright screaming at Bellamy, who just winces and waits for the storm to pass.

Clarke rubs her temples. “I can't handle you people today,” she snaps. “New policy: the First Lady's Secret Service agents wait outside of her office with her secretary. Is that clear?”

“Clarke...”

Clarke spins on her heel and stomps past Harper, who sends Bellamy a pitying look. The office door slams behind Clarke, leaving Bellamy to stand uncomfortably next to the other agents.

“It's happened to all of us,” Harper whispers loudly. 

The heaviness at the bottom of Bellamy's stomach doesn't fade when the other two agents nod their agreement. 

 

***

 

Clarke meant to fire Bellamy. She really did. 

But then the news about Sterling Morgan came in, and she and Finn were both out of their depths and panicking a little. Believe it or not, but Finn's administration had yet to see anything of the caliber of that video. Everything was chaos. 

And then Bellamy walked in, and all of the hope in his eyes drained away as soon as he saw how she had closed him out. It made her feel a little sick to her stomach. Bellamy backed her argument up, effectively saving her and Finn from yet another yelling match, and then the day just got away from Clarke. And she can't fire Bellamy after yelling at him like that, can she? Plus, he had been a good unofficial adviser. Something about the way he talks makes her trust him and his opinions. Can she really fire someone so useful just because she is, well, attracted to him? And he to her, if she has been reading him correctly?

Clarke sinks down to the couch in her office, rubbing the bridge of her nose and letting out a deep sigh. Does he seriously think that everything she said to that poor couple had been an act? She's more than a little offended at what he implied. After all, even she can admit that she can be a little tough and abrasive sometimes, but Christ! It's like he thinks that she is completely soulless. 

Her desk phone rings, and Clarke jumps a little. 

“Clarke Griffin-Collins,” she answers. 

“The interns are here,” Harper announces in her sweet voice.

“Right.” Clarke checks her hair in the mirror she keeps at her desk and struggles to compose her face into its usual mask of businesslike indifference. “Send them in.”

Ever since her first day as the First Lady, Clarke has made an effort to get to know every face that enters the doors of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as a member of her staff. Including the interns.

It's one of Clarke's favorite parts of the job. To put it simply, the White House interns are the best of the best. They're the students who take fifteen Advanced Placement courses, work a part-time job, and volunteer at the homeless shelter on the weekends. They play varsity sports (sometimes) and have outstanding ACT and SAT scores. More often than not they're painfully smart, if a little stunted socially. They remind Clarke of her college self.

Harper pushes open Clarke's office door and ushers in three teenagers, all wearing dress clothes that don't seem to fit them right. They stand and gawk in amazement at Clarke. She can't help but let a genuine smile overtake her.

“Jasper Jordan,” the tallest and skinniest one manages finally. He clearly didn't bother to get a haircut before meeting the First Lady, as his shaggy dark hair hangs over his forehead. Jasper strides across the room and pumps Clarke's hand up and down enthusiastically. “I'm so honored to meet you.”

“Welcome to the White House,” Clarke says warmly. She already likes this quirky, awkward kid and his raw amazement at his surroundings. 

“Monty Green,” the slim Asian boy introduces himself quietly. He wears a pale blue button down underneath a black blazer. 

“Emily Monroe,” the girl says. Her reddish hair is pulled back into a long braid, and her face is makeup free. “But everyone just calls me Monroe.”

Clarke nods, cataloging that tidbit of information in the back of her mind. “We are so excited to have you here,” she says. “Take a seat.”

Jasper, Monty, and Monroe sit on the edge of the couch, posture perfect and gazes focused on Clarke intently. It's a little creepy. 

“You can relax,” Clarke says with a small laugh. “I don't bite.”

Jasper grins and Monty's posture wilts ever so slightly, but Monroe doesn't crack a smile. Weird.

“I think you'll find,” Clarke begins, “that I take a very different approach to internships than a lot of other people, either in the White House or in other fields altogether, do. All three of you are very capable, and I don't plan to baby you or give you the grunt work all the time. You're here to learn, and you will do just that. Excuse me for a moment.” Clarke marches over to her door and opens it quickly. “Blake.”

Bellamy looks up in surprise, his jaw tightening involuntarily at her use of his last time. When did they lose their ability to speak on a first name basis?

“Come in,” Clarke beckons. “You too, Monroe.”

She leads Bellamy and Monroe in. The interns watch solemnly. 

“Now,” Clarke continues, “Jasper and Monty, you expressed interest in getting to know more about the Secret Service, correct?”

The boys nod in tandem. 

“Excellent. This is Agent Bellamy Blake, your new mentor.”

Bellamy looks over at her in surprise. “Clarke-”

“And Monroe,” Clarke cuts him off, “your interest rests in more of the coordinating and assisting part of my office? The logistics?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Monroe says.

“You will shadow Harper,” Clarke says. “You'll find her to be an exceptional teacher.”

Harper glows at the praise. Monroe looks wary at her new mentor's cheery disposition. 

“Excellent!” Clarke clasps her hands together, pleased with her work. “Feel free to stop in to talk to me at any time with any questions or concerns. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

Their informal meeting breaks up by unspoken agreement. Harper leads Monroe into the hall, where another desk is already being set up next to Harper's, while Monty and Jasper turn to Bellamy for guidance. Bellamy stares back at them blankly. 

“Uh, Clarke?” he asks. 

Clarke looks up from the document she has already begun studying on her desk. “Yes?”

“May I speak with you?” Bellamy asks, his teeth clenched. 

“By all means.”

“Privately.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows, then turns to Monty and Jasper. “May we have the room, boys?”

Jasper nods jerkily and bounds out of the room. Monty shuts the door quietly behind them on their way out. 

“Is there a problem?” Clarke asks. 

Bellamy folds his arms across his chest and moves to stand in front of Clarke's desk so that she can't avoid looking at him without being purposely obtuse. “It's not my job to babysit college students.”

“It's your job to do whatever your boss tells you to do,” Clarke says calmly, stubbornly refusing to take her eyes from whatever document is so important. 

Bellamy plucks the document from her hands and ignores the way her defiant eyes angrily shoot up to meet his. “No,” he replies, his tone equally civil, “it's not. It's my job to keep you alive. How am I supposed to do that when I have to focus half my attention on making sure that they don't mess something up? I can't have untrained college students on my team. That's not how it works. It's risky to both them and us.”

“Jasper is a black belt and a chemist. He's responsible for those Chemsee kits that detect poison in food that saved our Secretary of State's life last year,” Clarke snaps. “And you know that system you use to communicate with the other agents? With your stupid little earpieces? Monty developed it. When he was fifteen. So don't you dare tell me that I have given you untrained workers. Don't you dare underestimate the sense of responsibility I hold for ensuring that my office runs as smoothly as possible.”

Bellamy was feeling properly chastised by Clarke's speech. He really was. But then she started taking his doubts as criticism of her ability to run her office, and that really pissed him off. 

“Why do you always have to take everything I say so goddamn personally?” he growls. 

“Oh, please!” Clarke slams her hands down on her desk and rises from her chair. “Because you take every opportunity to doubt and criticize me!”

“When have I ever doubted you?”

“Oh, let me see,” Clarke sneers. She rests her weight back on one leg and begins counting on her fingers. “Well, for starters, today you thought I was pretending to sympathize with Sterling Morgan's family-”

Bellamy begins to protest, but she cuts him off with a sharp warning look. 

“I'm not finished, Bellamy. You pulled me away from that little girl who had been shot-”

“Because I was trying to save your life!” Bellamy insists calmly.

“No,” Clarke argues, “because you didn't think I knew what I was doing.”

“Oh my God,” Bellamy groans. He nearly begins to raise his voice, but then he realizes that's something Finn would do. That sobers him up extraordinarily fast. “You really don't understand how I see you, do you?”

All of Clarke's anger seeps out of her. Her mouth dries. “I... What?”

Bellamy shakes his head, a tiny, wry smile ghosting over his lips. “Do you want to know why I was unsure about having those boys shadowing me?”

Clarke watches him silently, waiting for him to continue.

“I was wary,” Bellamy continues softly, “because I can't stand the thought of something happening to you that I could have prevented. If something were to happen to you while I was distracted with those boys...” He shudders and takes a deep breath before continuing. “We need you, Clarke. I honestly have no idea what this country would do without you. We need you to keep guiding the President through this. You have to believe me when I say that you're one of the smartest people I know. I don't think it's possible for me to underestimate you.”

Clarke swallows, her throat tight, as they stare at each other from either side of her desk. For the first time in a long time, the First Lady doesn't know what to say. 

“I'll tell you what,” Bellamy says finally, blinking quickly and consciously stepping away from Clarke, “how about I give it a few days? I'll get to know the boys, see what they can do, and then I can figure out how we should go about this internship thing. Maybe I'll keep them with me. Maybe I'll have them go with someone who's better equipped to teach them. Okay?”

Clarke nods. 

“Are you okay?” Bellamy asks quietly. “I hope I didn't overstep-”

Clarke takes a deep, shaky breath. “I think you should go, Bellamy.”

Bellamy is about to protest, to push her further to see what is going on, but then her use of his first name registers. He beats down his gleeful grin, managing to tame it into a small smile, before nodding and backing out her office door.

Clarke sits numbly in her desk, reworking their conversation in her mind. When was the last time someone actually listened to her? When someone was actually able to effectively argue his point of view while taking hers into account as well? And then compromised? Without belittling her or fighting unfairly?

Clarke buries her head in her hands, allowing herself to, for the first time in as long as she can remember, become overwhelmed by the incredible pressure resting on her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lincoln and Monty and Jasper, oh my!   
> In case you haven't noticed, we're doing the slow-burn thing here *waggles eyebrows*  
> Make sure to subscribe so that you get a notification when I update! And let me know what you thought of this chapter! Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like sexual tension... ;)

 

Octavia Blake is proud of her job. As the President's personal secretary, she likes to think that Finn Collins and his administration would have a difficult time continuing without her. She's been with Finn since his very first day in the Oval Office, answering phone calls and coordinating his schedule. It's not easy work, and more often than not she leaves with a raging headache at an ungodly hour of the night. The job requires someone who is always alert and organized, ready for whatever the day throws at her. Nothing phases Octavia anymore.

Well, besides Lincoln Whittle.

He always walks into the West Wing like he owns the place. The first time he visited Finn's office, he tossed his name at Octavia without looking at her, and every time after that he hasn't bothered to announce himself. He seems to just expect her to know who he is. She does, mostly because no one who walks through the office is nearly as good looking as he is, but that's beside the point. He grates on her nerves.

“Do you ever smile?” she shoots at him.

Finn's meeting is running late, and Lincoln sits in the chair across from Octavia as he waits.

Lincoln looks up from the folder in his hands. “Excuse me?”

“Are you one of those people who just tries to be all dark and brooding in the hopes of looking more attractive, or are you really as cranky as you look?” Octavia has a feeling that she'll be completely mortified by this conversation in a few moments, but she plows ahead anyways. She really is curious.

Lincoln looks suitably concerned for her sanity. “I don't-”

Finn strides into the room then, muttering to one of his Secret Service Agents with an angry look on his face, before brightening upon seeing Lincoln. “Hey, man. Sorry I'm late.”

Lincoln sends an unreadable look back at Octavia as Finn leads him into the Oval Office. As soon as the door closes behind them, Octavia slumps onto her desk with a groan. It was probably not the best idea to offend the President's National Security Advisor. He's probably already sent in an order to get her offed.

 

*

 

Bellamy Blake can honestly say that he never expected to step foot into a Planned Parenthood. Sure, he's had plenty of _experiences_ in his lifetime, but he's always been careful. He knows how to go about keeping himself clean and his girls, well, not pregnant.

He looks down at Clarke Griffin-Collins, who stands at his side and waves cheerfully at the herds of young women vying for her attention. Clarke's hair hangs down her back, long and wavy, and she wears a long black peacoat over black tights and black heels. Her cheeks are flushed from the chill of the wintry air.

Bellamy glances nervously at the crowd of protesters across the street. It's normal for there to be a small crowd hanging around the rather controversial building, but he hadn't anticipated how loud they would be. And the signs, complete with offensive sayings about the First Lady, do nothing but put him in a foul mood. He's ready to send in the Secret Service to quietly shut down their pathetic little protest, but Clarke, for whatever reason, seems completely oblivious to the protesters' presence. She's more cheerful than Bellamy has seen her in days.

Clarke shakes the hands of all of the Planned Parenthood workers, chatting each of them up. She glances behind her to make sure that Bellamy follows when the group walks inside. He nods his head once in acknowledgment, and Clarke turns away, laughing at something one of the women has said.

Bellamy trails behind as Clarke is given a tour of the facilities. He listens with half an ear when someone explains their lack of funding and the struggle to remain open under harsh new laws. He surveys the impressive crowd standing outside as Clarke gives a quick speech at a hastily erected podium, promising to fight for women's access to reproductive control and gender equality.

Bellamy finally takes a deep breath when he is sitting next to Clarke in the black SUV while Miller, who Bellamy has quickly been getting to know and trust, drives them back to the White House with the partition rolled up.

“I wish I had more control,” Clarke mutters.

Instinctively, Bellamy doesn't respond or even acknowledge her words. In his short time with the First Lady, he has learned when to keep quiet and wait for her to talk when she is ready. Clarke has a habit of baring her seemingly never-ending little secrets whenever he can keep his mouth shut.

“I just-” she whispers, “I just feel like I'm not doing enough. It's not like I can bully lawmakers in the way that I can bully Finn. No one takes me seriously here. I don't know how much longer I can take it, Bellamy.”

She quickly wipes at her eyes. Bellamy pretends not to notice.

“I take you seriously.”

Clarke lets out a small, half-hearted laugh. “Thank you.”

“I'm not the only one, either,” he continues.

Clarke scoffs, but doesn't argue.

They pull up to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, only pausing slightly at the gates. The sun shines brightly on the large white structure and the dry winter grass around it.

“Did I do okay today?” Clarke asks in a small voice.

“I think your visit really meant a lot,” Bellamy replies cautiously. “Some people aren't going to be pleased about it, but a lot of people are going to be thrilled.”

Clarke smiles at him gratefully, then nervously pats at her hair. “Do I look okay? Can you tell that I've been...?”

Bellamy swallows. “You look nice.”

Clarke's eyes shoot up to his, holding them for a beat longer than is truly necessary as a slow, shy smile spreads across her cheeks. “Bellamy, I-”

Clarke's door opens abruptly, effectively interrupting whatever she was going to say. The moment is broken.

 

*

 

Clarke loves Christmas. Ever since she was a little girl, Christmas has been her favorite holiday. Of course, this whole snow thing is one of many entirely new experiences brought on by the move to DC, but she's grown to appreciate it. Somewhat.

The first snow of the year comes towards the end of the first week of December. The White House has already been decorated for Christmas, and Octavia has taken to wearing a Santa hat to work everyday. Clarke is in the midst of planning approximately five billion holiday dinners and celebrations. Bellamy watches in amusement as Clarke goes from relatively high-strung and short-fused to downright terrorizing the White House when things don't go according to plan.

Case in point.

Bellamy arrives at the White House to find Clarke taste-testing potential food for a holiday brunch and delegating to Harper and Monroe while wearing only leggings and an oversized teal Henley, her hair tied back into a messy blonde braid.

“I need your opinion,” Clarke interrupts herself as soon as she sees Bellamy. She holds out her plate to him. “Omelet or quiche? Or scones?”

Bellamy looks between her and the plate. “Sorry?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and shoves her fork into his hands. “I swear to God, you people act like this is rocket science! Just try the food and tell me which one you think will impress William and Kate!”

Bellamy takes a tentative bite of each. “They're all good.”

“Jesus Christ...”

“Why can't you just have all three?”

Clarke's clipboard hits the wall behind Bellamy's head. “I'm fighting the war on obesity, Bellamy!” she howls. “I can't serve omelets, quiche, _and_ scones!”

Bellamy snickers. Harper and Monroe look at him in wide-eyed shock; not many people have the audacity to laugh at the First Lady when she gets frustrated enough to start throwing things.

“Harper, Monroe,” Clarke snaps. “We're done here. I'll figure the rest out on my own.”

The two hurry out of the room, leaving Bellamy and Clarke to stare at each other.

“You can't say that wasn't funny.” Bellamy unsuccessfully tries to hide his smirk.

Clarke raises her eyebrows, trying desperately not to let a small giggle bubble up from her chest. It _was_ pretty funny.

“Shut up!” she finally laughs, covering her face with her hands. “I'm sorry I yelled.”

Bellamy falls into the chair next to her. “I can understand why you're so worked up,” he says mockingly. “Lord help us all if you make the wrong decision and the Duchess has to act like she isn't breaking out in hives because of excess carbs.”

“She can't eat carbs?” Clarke asks in horror.

Bellamy pokes her in the side. “I made that up, Princess.”

Clarke grins at him. “Seriously, though. Omelets, quiche, or scones?”

“Quiche.”

“Was that really so hard?” she sighs.

“Well, it definitely wasn't worth breaking your clipboard over,” Bellamy mutters.

“Oh, shut up.”

 

*

 

“Let's have a snowball fight.”

“Sorry?”

Clarke stands in front of Bellamy, hands planted on her hips and winter hat hanging low over her eyes. “It's snowing, Bellamy!” she says. “And I want to have a snowball fight.”

“I don't think that's quite in my job description...”

Clarke glowers up at him. “And here I thought you were the only one around here who knew how to have fun.”

Ouch. 

“It's not that I don't want to, Princess,” Bellamy grumbles. “I seriously think that having a snowball fight with you while I'm on the clock is a good way to get myself fired.”

“I'm your boss, idiot!” Clarke huffs. She tosses him a pair of snow pants and grins cheekily. “C'mon, you know you want to.”

Maybe it's how childlike Clarke looks as she pleads with him. Maybe it's the general stuffiness of his job. Or maybe it's just how inviting the yards look with the snow falling peacefully. For whatever reason, though, Bellamy finds himself out in the middle of the snow a few minutes later, howling at the handful that Clarke has managed to stuff down the back of his coat.

Clarke shrieks as he grabs her around the waist and pulls her to the ground. “No! Please!” she manages to squeal between giggles. “I surrender!”

“Nuh-uh, Princess,” Bellamy grins. He straddles her quickly, pinning her to the ground. “It's not that easy.”

He holds a handful of freezing snow to Clarke's neck, grinning as she squeals and thrashes underneath him. When he finally lets her go, Clarke's cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkling. Her neck is bright red from where he held the snow.

“You asshole!” she accuses, struggling to keep herself from smiling.

“You asked for it,” Bellamy reminds her smugly.

Clarke pushes him, managing to catch him off balance, and he falls on his back into the snow with a small pouf of snow.

“You're lucky that I'm a forgiving person,” Clarke says snidely.

“Come on, Princess,” Bellamy laughs. He stands and holds out a hand to help her up. “Let's go get some hot chocolate.”

 

*

 

Monty and Jasper are a handful. On their third day at the White House, Monty thinks it's a good idea to hack into the Secret Service earpieces and play Darth Vader's theme song into the ears of the Secret Service whenever Clarke approaches them. Bellamy thinks it's hilarious until he realizes that it is his job to keep the interns under control and the First Lady alive. Then he isn't quite so amused.

It was way too easy, Monty tells Bellamy later, considering the fact that he made the earpieces and therefore knows their very few weaknesses.

Bellamy decides not to tell Clarke. For Monty's safety. And then he settles Monty down at Bellamy's own desk and orders him to eliminate all of the program's weaknesses.

 

*

 

“I don't get it,” Octavia mutters. “ _Why_ are you here?”

Lincoln shuffles in front of her desk. Is he... nervous? “My mom's flying into town,” he says gruffly, “and I was wondering if you know of any nice hotels that are close to the White House? And some good restaurants?”

Octavia raises one eyebrow. “You came all the way here to ask me about travel plans,” she repeats slowly. “Have you never heard of the internet? Of _Kayak_?”

“Forget it,” Lincoln snorts. He spins on his heel and begins to march out of her office. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You like me!” Octavia realizes.

Lincoln freezes in the doorway with his back still to her. “Excuse me?”

“ _That's_ why you came all the way here,” Octavia giggles. “You _like_ me.”

Lincoln turns to face her and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Octavia leans back in her chair and smirks at him, a little tipsy from the power high stemming from her little discovery. “Why did you really come here, Lincoln?”

“I-” Lincoln rubs the back of his neck. “Wouldyouwanttogetdinnerwithme?”

“Sorry, I didn't catch that.” She _so_ did. But he has to work for it.

Lincoln gives Octavia a pained look. “Would you, uh, want to get dinner with me?”

“I don't know. I have a pretty busy schedule...” Octavia teases. She sees the look on Lincoln's face, however, and quickly backtracks. “I'm joking! Jeez! You can pick me up at the front gate of the White House tonight at eight.”

 

*

 

Clarke has, in her past two years at the White House, made it a tradition to hold a black tie dinner for the White House staff around Christmas. It has become one of her favorite things about the holiday season. Seeing the normally stern, intimidating Secret Service agents laughing and dancing with their significant others is totally weird and totally awesome at the same time.

Clarke wants the night to be perfect. After everything her staff has done for her and has put up with, they deserve to be treated like the royalty for once.

Clarke smooths down the front of her ice blue evening gown and spins slightly to view the dress from all sides in the mirror. With its open back and layers of loose tulle, the dress is just the right mix of classy and sexy. Clarke's hair is pulled into a messy side braid, and her nude heels are high enough to make her sweat nervously at the thought of stairs.

Finn lets out a low whistle from the entrance to their bathroom. “Damn,” he grins.

“Be quiet,” Clarke laughs, looking her husband up and down. “You don't look so bad yourself.”

Finn wears a classic black tux with a black bow tie. He glances down at his ensemble before looking back up at Clarke and winking lazily. “I try.”

The duo walks down to the entrance of the White House, ready to greet their guests. It's a quiet walk, but, for the first time in a long time, Clarke doesn't feel any animosity hanging in the air between them. It's strange but nice.

The doors burst open before she can comment on their easy silence, and their staff enters in a steady stream.

Octavia and Lincoln walk in together, earning Octavia an impressed look from her best friend. Octavia wears a long, emerald green dress that hugs her in all the right places. Lincoln, in his standard black tux, can't keep his eyes off of her. Octavia whispers a quick promise to explain everything to Clarke later.

Raven enters in a skin-tight red dress with Wick, arguing quietly. She cuts him off abruptly to hug Finn. Wick shakes his head wryly as he shakes Clarke's hand.

The interns come in a pack, all wide-eyed and nervous. Monty and Jasper tug at their ties, looking more than a little uncomfortable in their too-big formal wear. Monroe has cleaned up surprisingly well, donning a loose navy dress. Her hair remains in its standard braids.

A crowd of Secret Service agents enters together, laughing raucously enough to make Clarke wonder if they pregamed her Christmas party. Her eyes land on Bellamy then, standing between Miller and Murphy, and all of Clarke's irritation fades away. Bellamy looks her up and down unabashedly.

Finn jokes around with Murphy, giving Bellamy the opportunity to slide up to Clarke.

“You look beautiful, Princess,” he murmurs.

Clarke can't find it in herself to chide him on his use of her overused nickname. “You clean up nice,” she says instead.

It's true. In his fitted navy blue tuxedo and skinny black tie, Bellamy is hands-down the best dressed. Clarke blinks rapidly and looks past him to his friends, trying to hide how flustered she is. If his faint chuckle at her flushed cheeks are any indication, she hasn't done a very good job of it.

 

*

 

Finn fumbles his way through an impersonal toast. An intern somehow manages to twist his ankle on the dance floor, and Clarke finds him some ice to soothe it. Raven attempts to avoid Wick at all costs. Octavia and Lincoln disappear halfway through the night, much to Bellamy's annoyance.

“Do you want to dance?”

Bellamy, who has been sitting at one of the circular tables and watching the dancing in mild amusement as he nurses a drink, looks up in surprise. Clarke stands in front of him, a determined look on her face.

“Where's Finn?” Bellamy asks dumbly.

Clarke glances over her shoulder to where Finn is laughing at something Raven has said. “He's otherwise occupied.”

“Ah,” Bellamy murmurs.

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “It's you or Jasper,” she says, “and I'm not too thrilled about what a dance with Jasper will do to my toes.”

Bellamy looks over to where Jasper and Monroe are dancing. Monroe winces infinitesimally every few seconds as Jasper steps on her feet, and her dance partner stammers out apology after apology.

Bellamy laughs and stands, holding out a hand to Clarke. “Well, I can't let my expertise go to waste.”

“You? A dancer?” Clarke is unconvinced.

“What can I say? I'm a man of many talents.”

It's awkward at first. Bellamy isn't where he should put his hands, but Clarke solves his problem by grasping his left hand in her right and pulling his other arm around her waist. He's stiff, suddenly very aware of Clarke's proximity and how his hand rests on the bare skin of her back.

“I thought you said you knew your way around a dance floor,” Clarke teases.

“Is that a challenge, Princess?”

Clarke shrugs with a small smirk. “Not everyone can be as good of a dancer as I am.”

Bellamy spins her quickly, earning himself a small shriek of surprise. When he pulls her back into his arms, they're closer than before. His arm fits around her waist securely, and her eyes are just inches from his jaw. Clarke swats him on the arm, her cheeks red from her little outburst.

The song changes, this time to one with a bit of a faster beat, but Clarke and Bellamy don't move. Bellamy senses rather than sees Finn watching them from behind Clarke, but he ignores the President stubbornly and focuses on Clarke.

“This is some party, Princess,” Bellamy says quietly.

Clarke pulls her eyes away from Bellamy's and glances around proudly. “It's my favorite one of the holiday season,” she says. “You people actually know how to have fun, unlike ninety percent of the stuffy diplomats we get in here. Don't tell anyone I said that.”

“My lips are sealed,” Bellamy promises. “Are _you_ having fun?”

He spins her out under his arm, slowly this time, and she smiles up at him once she is settled back in his arms. “I am now,” she whispers once she trusts her voice.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Bellamy and Clarke jump, torn out of their own little world by none other than the President himself. Finn coolly stares at Bellamy over Clarke's head. Bellamy drops his gaze and steps back quickly, ignoring the challenge in Finn's eyes.

“Thanks for the dance, Princess,” he says before slipping into the crowd.

Finn pulls Clarke close, watching as Bellamy disappears. “Princess?”

Clarke shrugs, struggling to meet his eyes. “It's a stupid nickname.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know how I feel about Blake.”

“He's very good at his job,” Clarke says defensively. “He cares about me.”

Finn snorts. “That's what worries me.”

“Are you kidding me?” Clarke snaps. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

The song comes to its end. Clarke pulls out of her husband's grasp. “Thanks for the dance,” she says bitterly.

“Clarke-”

Clarke ignores him, storming out of the ballroom, only to nearly run over Lincoln and Octavia, who are so wrapped up in each other that they hardly even notice her.

“Oh!” Clarke groans. “Jesus Christ! Get a room you guys!”

Lincoln blushes bright red and quickly pulls away from Octavia, who doesn't look the least bit guilty.

Clarke marches past her staff, nodding in greeting but not managing to pull herself together enough to smile, until she's alone in the gardens. She sits heavily on a bench and buries her head in her hands. What was that back there?

“Clarke?”

Clarke stifles a groan and turns to face Bellamy. He stands a few yards behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets uncertainly.

“Is everything okay?” he asks softly.

It's when he looks at Clarke so seriously, eyes wide and concerned, a small wrinkle in his brow, that Clarke realizes how absolutely _not-okay_ her life is.

Her husband doesn't give her the time of day unless he's feeling threatened by someone else (aka Bellamy). She can't even remember the last time they had sex. They fight all the time. Politics is a constant war between them.

And Bellamy Blake is standing in front of her, so sweet and worried and fucking gorgeous, and she can't even kiss him the way she wants to because, despite of everything, Clarke is still loyal to her asshole of a husband.

Clarke is so not okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fans self and breathes heavily*  
> I'm sorry it took me so long to update. School is crazy. I know it's pretty short, but I feel like we got some decent plot development, right? We probably won't see another chapter this week. I have a crap-ton of tests this week, prom next weekend, and the ACT the week after. Yikes.  
> Thank you all SO much for the positive feedback. I wasn't expecting this kind of a response at all. I really take your suggestions and requests seriously (you asked for more Octavia, and you received ;)).  
> Remember to subscribe so that you get notifications when I post!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. So so so so sorry. I know this took me a month to update, but I promise that I'll be better about updating now that things are finally slowing down!   
> Please remember to shoot me some kudos/comments/subscriptions. You all rock!  
> Hopefully this chapter is worth the wait ;)

Clarke Griffin-Collins has never had a lot of girlfriends. She has always been pretty intense, she supposes, and has done a good job of steering away potential friendships. After all, it's not easy to graduate at the top of your class at Yale. And dating a guy ten years older than you? That's not exactly a recipe for making great friends either. Girls her age have always been intimidated by Finn, and girls Finn's age seem to constantly down on Clarke for her youth. And don't even get Clarke started on how much time she spent grooming Finn for the presidency. That definitely did not leave her a lot of time to go out for drinks and bond with girlfriends.

Because of that, Octavia Blake is one of Clarke's first real friends. Clarke isn't even sure how exactly they became so close, but she isn't complaining. Octavia is fun. Plain and simple. She brings out the thirty-year-old hidden deep inside of Clarke.

“I brought booze,” Octavia announces.

Clarke grins and opens her front door wider to allow Octavia up into the presidential apartment. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

Octavia winks. “When you're outta this house and it's socially acceptable for you to go to bars and get wasted, you're gonna be buying me drinks for the rest of our lives. You owe me.”

Whenever Finn is out of town, Octavia stays over in the presidential suite. It has become tradition. Clarke and Octavia usually whip up an unnecessary amount of junk food and binge-watch Netflix while swapping the latest bits of political gossip. Tonight is no different. Finn is at some dull conference with the Vice President that Clarke doesn't think he can possibly mess up, so she's holding down the fort at the White House.

AKA getting blackout drunk with her best friend.

Octavia and Clarke snuggle in Clarke and Finn's king-sized bed, a giant bowl of popcorn between them and _Scandal_ playing on the television. Clarke likes the show because it gives her new ideas of how to manipulate the White House. (She's only kind of joking.)

“So,” Clarke says around a mouthful of popcorn. “What's with you and Lincoln?”

Octavia shrugs casually, not looking away from the TV. “He's really cute.”

“You're blushing!” Clarke gasps. She pelts Octavia with popcorn. “Are you kidding me?! Tell me everything!”

“I want to lick his abs and do dirty things to him in his office,” Octavia blurts out, hiding her face behind her hands.

Clarke shrieks with laughter. “Oh my God!”

“But at the same time,” Octavia sighs, getting a faraway look in her eyes, “he's so smart and good at his job. And he doesn't try to do the quiet and brooding thing! He's just naturally the strong and silent type!”

“Wow,” Clarke giggles as she wipes the laughter from her eyes. “It sounds like you really like him.”

Octavia nods seriously. “Don't tell anyone I said this, but I think he's _the one_.”

“O!” Clarke gasps. She tackles her friend in a hug, ignoring how the popcorn bowl has tipped over and is pressing into her ribs.

“You're gonna make me cry!” Octavia wails.

Clarke pulls back and picks some of the popcorn off of the comforter. She pops it in her mouth and asks, “Has he met Bellamy yet? As, like, your boyfriend? And not just as some hot-shot Presidential Advisor?”

Octavia's eyes widen. She shakes her head vehemently. “Are you kidding me? Lincoln's too hot to die!”

“That bad, huh?” Clarke snickers.

Octavia falls onto the pillows behind her with a dramatic sigh. “I've never introduced a boyfriend to Bell that I actually like,” she admits. “Usually I just introduce the jerks so that my brother will scare them off for me and I can avoid the awkward breakup talk. Plus, y'know, then Bell feels secure in his manhood or whatever. It's a win-win.”

Clarke snorts and pours them each a shot. “Maybe Bellamy's met his match with Lincoln,” she suggests. “I mean, Lincoln _is_ the National Security Advisor.”

Octavia sighs dreamily. “He is pretty badass.”

They take their shots together and wince in unison.

“Enough about me,” Octavia announces, suddenly businesslike. “Time to get serious. When was the last time you and Finn did the dirty?”

“We are _not_ talking about this.”

Octavia scowls at Clarke. “I told you that I fantasize about licking Lincoln's abs.”

“Yeah, but I didn't _want_ to know that.”

“Minor detail,” Octavia says, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “Come on, girl, fess up.”

“It's been a long time,” Clarke admits.

“That's what I thought,” Octavia says.

Clarke shoots her friend a dirty look. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Please,” Octavia scoffs. “I can't remember the last time I saw you two interacting peacefully. This administration is like World War III.”

“I'm too sober for this conversation.”

Octavia helpfully passes Clarke another drink. “I don't get it,” she says thoughtfully. “You're hot as hell. Finn's decent looking, but he's, y'know, _powerful_ and all that. You guys fight all the time, so you should be having great makeup sex.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose. “What are you trying to accomplish here?”

“I forgot,” Octavia admits with a small giggle.

“You're really drunk,” Clarke realizes.

“I pregamed,” Octavia shrugs.

“I think it's time for bed.”

Octavia sighs and settles into Clarke's mattress. “We'll figure out a way to get you laid, Clarkey. Don't worry. Leave it to me.”

“Goodnight, O.”

 

*

 

“She refuses to get out of bed,” Clarke huffs.

Bellamy's eyebrows disappear beneath his mop of dark curls. “So my little sister is currently sleeping in your bed? Hungover?”

Clarke smiles up at him guiltily. “I left some water on the bedside table?” she tries.

“Just leave her there,” Bellamy sighs. “I'll go make sure she's still breathing when I eat lunch.”

Clarke and Bellamy are half-jogging to the Situation Room, where the National Security Council awaits them. All Clarke has heard is that another video has been posted of Sterling Morgan, the soldier kidnapped by the constant thorn in Clarke's side: the Middle East's resident extremist religious organization. Clarke pulls her hair into a messy bun and quickly fills Bellamy in on her night with Octavia as she and Bellamy hurry to the Situation Room.

“Aren't _you_ hungover?” Bellamy asks, glancing over at Clarke curiously.

Clarke smirks. “I can hold my liquor like a two hundred pound man.”

They pause outside the door of the Situation Room, only slightly out of breath as they look each other up and down quickly.

“Do I look halfway presentable?” Clarke whispers. She smooths down the skirt of the tea-length lavender dress she threw on this morning. 

“You look great,” Bellamy says truthfully.

Clarke nods sharply and loudly pushes open the doors, her white heels clicking on the wooden floors to announce their arrival. The National Security Council's executives look up at their entrance. The Director of National Intelligence, the President's National Security Advisor, the Director of the CIA, and the Secretary of State all sit in their usual spots in plush black leather chairs around the table. Now that Clarke has arrived, Raven and Finn are the only ones missing.

Bellamy slips to his usual spot at the door. Clarke takes her seat.

“What is Finn's ETA?” she asks sharply.

“Twenty minutes,” Lincoln answers.

Clarke nods briefly and scans the briefing sitting in front of her. “Play the video.”

“Are you sure?” the Secretary of State speaks up. “We could-”

Clarke shoots her an irritated look. “The President and VP are being briefed on their way here. We should get started.”

The Secretary of State dares to stare her down and lasts less than a second before caving and giving the Director of the CIA the go-ahead to play the video. From his spot at the doorway, Bellamy struggles to hide his smirk. They should know by now not to question the Princess.

The video opens to show Sterling Morgan in his combat uniform and helmet. Truthfully, he looks better than Clarke was expecting. Maybe a little slimmer than in the first video with the addition of a full-on beard, but not abused. He begins to speak hoarsely, describing his birthplace in Michigan, his deployment, and his subsequent capture. He even discusses his “humane” treatment at the hands of his captors. Morgan closes his statements by urging the United States to leave the Middle East.

A spokesperson for the terrorist organization appears at the end of the video and demands a swap: Morgan for eight of their people who are being held by the US. He threatens the capture of more American military personnel if their demands fail to be met.

Finn and Raven arrive just as the video ends. Finn's shaggy hair is mussed, and Raven's pantsuit looks slightly off-kilter from their undoubtedly rushed journey back to the White House.

“We saw the video on our way back,” Raven says as they take their seats.

“What are your thoughts?” Finn asks. His eyes are trained on Lincoln as he speaks.

“We have to assume that his comments were made under duress,” Lincoln says thoughtfully. “But I don't believe that he is at immediate risk. There are no physical signs of abuse.”

“Does the public know about this?” Raven asks.

Lincoln shakes his head. “The video was sent directly to us. But I think we have to assume that it will get out eventually and have a plan of attack at the ready. If possible, we should release it ourselves. If it ends up being released and the public realizes that we were sitting on it without taking action, we'll face riots.”

“I think we need to get him out of there,” Finn announces loudly. “This poor man must be terrified! We have to do something.”

“We can't make a trade,” Clarke says through gritted teeth. “That's a national security nightmare.”

“We can't risk attempting to free him by force, either,” Lincoln agrees. “If the mission failed, we would risk giving them valuable information about our military assets. Not to mention the lives of American soldiers we would risk by sending in a rescue party.”

“You people just aren't thinking hard enough!” Finn argues. “There has to be a solution! You're supposed to be the most brilliant minds in our national security, and you can't come up with a way to save one soldier from some pathetic little terrorist organization from a far less developed region than ours?!”

“I agree with Finn,” Raven speaks up.

Finn shoots her an undecipherable look.

“You people aren't looking at the bigger picture,” Clarke snaps. “We're talking about one soldier here. They want eight of their own. Eight. Do you seriously think that is a fair trade?! These are people who have been convicted of committing crimes against humanity. They were in charge of acts of terrorism that killed American civilians. You're out of your goddamn minds if you can justify risking so much just to save one deserter!”

“Deserter or not,” Finn says sharply, “he is one of our own. It's my job as Commander-in-Chief to keep our military personnel safe. How can I allow his family to live in fear of his life? When I could do something about it?”

Lincoln clears his throat. “It seems that we'll have to take a vote.”

The members of the National Security Council nod reluctantly.

“Those in favor of remaining uninvolved?”

Clarke, Lincoln, the Secretary of State, the Director of the CIA, and the Director of National Intelligence stoically raise their hands.

“Those opposed?”

Finn and Raven cast their votes.

Lincoln rubs his hands together. “That decides it, then. We'll keep waiting. Now. Do we leak this ourselves?”

 

*

 

Christmas at the White House is a magical time, even when the President and First Lady can barely speak without snapping at each other and a kidnapped soldier's fate hangs over everyone's heads. The decorations are extravagant, the food and drink are never-ending, and the White House is constantly filled with laughter. As cliché as it sounds, it's the best time of the year.

Finn and Clarke host a large celebration full of Finn's political beneficiaries a few nights before Christmas. It's a black-tie affair, and the grand ballroom has been transformed into a winter wonderland by Clarke and her expert team of decorators. Chandeliers hang above the dancing guests, sparkling gaily with the music. Real evergreens stand at the corners of the room, decked out from head-to-toe in gaudy silver ornaments.

Finn disappears at the height of the night, murmuring something about forgetting to make an important phone call and leaving Clarke to pretend to be interested in the incredibly dull stories being told by some random Senator. Clarke nods and smiles politely, wishing that she could duck out as easily as Finn could and cursing her archaic status as the White House hostess. Why can't the President host his own damn party for once?

Bellamy is on duty, monitoring the politicians as they get tipsy and make offensive jokes, and he can sense Clarke's boredom from across the room. He makes faces at her from behind the Senator's back. Clarke sends him several dirty looks in response when the Senator isn't looking.

Harper taps on Clarke's shoulder and leans down to speak with the First Lady in a hushed tone. “Do you know where the President is? He's set to speak in just a few minutes.”

“I'll go get him!” Clarke volunteers quickly, eager to escape from the Senator's droning.

She excuses herself and hurries out of the room. The smooth fabric of her long black dress slips around her legs softly as she walks through the deserted hallways towards Finn's office.

Octavia went home several hours ago, and her desk lamp is off. The only light comes from the crack underneath the heavy door leading to the Oval Office. The faint murmurs of two voices can be heard from within, and Clarke frowns. Didn't Finn say he just had to make a phone call?

Clarke pushes open the door quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever Finn was doing. Heaven forbid she interrupt him if he is actually doing something productive for once.

Clarke peers into the Oval Office. Her mouth drops open. Her mind goes black.

Finn is definitely not alone in his office. And what he is doing with his Vice President is definitely _not_ in his job description.

_Jesus Christ._

Clarke's brain kicks into fight or flight mode and, for possibly the first time ever, she flees. She slips out of her towering black pumps, fisting them in her right hand, and sprints down the corridors. Her skirts get tangled in her legs, and she stumbles but manages to keep her momentum going.

Bellamy is laughing quietly with two other Secret Service agents at an entrance to the ballroom when Clarke finds him.

“B-Bellamy,” Clarke rasps.

All traces of laughter disappear from his eyes when Bellamy sees her face. “Clarke? Is everything oka-”

“I need to talk to you,” she blurts out.

Bellamy exchanges a quick look with his friends before following Clarke in the direction she came from. She leads him down two corridors wordlessly before beginning to glances in the rooms they walk by. Before he can ask her what she's doing, Clarke grabs him by the hand and yanks him into someone's dark office.

“Clarke?”

Clarke stands in front of Bellamy with her arms folded across her chest and surveys him critically. A shadow falls across her face, but he can make out how her lower lip trembles.

“Princess,” he murmurs, taking a cautious step forward, “what's wrong?”

Clarke takes a shaky breath, and then something in her changes. Her eyes harden. Her jaw tightens. “Fuck it,” she whispers.

And then her hands are on his cheeks and her lips are molding to his, rough and daring him to object. Bellamy is frozen in disbelief, his hands at his sides. Her hands slip into his hair, give it a frustrated tug, and then he's gone.

Bellamy's hands slip around Clarke's waist and pull her body flush against his. He sucks on her bottom lip, and she moans and pushes him against the door with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

It brings him back down to the ground. It's in that moment that Bellamy realizes exactly who he's kissing. Who she's married to. _Fuck._

Bellamy pushes her away. They stare at each other wordlessly, chests heaving and hair mussed.

“We can't do this,” Bellamy says finally. His voice cracks.

“He's cheating on me!” Clarke bursts out. Bellamy freezes. “He's cheating on me with his Vice President, and they're fucking on his desk right as we speak, a-and I'm such a fool!”

A dangerous glint enters Bellamy's eyes. “So that's what this is,” he mutters, running a shaky hand through his messy dark curls. “You're just using me to get back at Finn.”

“What? No, I-”

Bellamy holds up his hand. “Save it, Clarke. I'm not some pawn you can use in your twisted little political games.”

“Bellamy-”

Bellamy turns on his heel and leaves the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Clarke sinks to the floor and bursts into tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to subscribe to get notifications when I post a new chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! We're back! And it didn't take a month for me to update this time!

If Bellamy a less mature man, he would have requested a change in assignment. Instead, he just plays hooky from work for a few days.

He uses that that time to think. His kiss with Clarke replays in his head in a constant loop. He cringes at the memory of how he reacted. He watches her confess her husband's infidelity dozens of times, thinking of different ways that he could have reacted and comforted her.

As Bellamy holes up in his apartment, watching an unhealthy amount of Netflix and feeling sorry for himself, he comes to a conclusion: Finn is an asshole. The man has the smartest, most beautiful, most confident woman in America on his arm, and he goes off and bangs his Vice President. Bellamy fantasizes about strangling Finn a lot more than he would like to admit.

On the third day, Bellamy realizes something else: he messed up. Clarke came to him. She found out that the one person she was supposed to be able to rely on had betrayed her, and she came to Bellamy. And then he pushed her away.

_Fuck._

And so, four days after the Christmas party, Bellamy wakes up, dons his coat and tie, and attempts to tame the mop of curls atop his head. It's time to go face her, and he has no idea what version of Clarke he will find awaiting him

  


*

  


Clarke is pissed. She can respect the fact that she misread Bellamy Blake and his intentions with her. She can respect the fact that he believes their kiss was a mistake. But she can't respect how he has been avoiding her.

Clarke doesn't give Finn and Raven any inclination that she knows about their illicit activities. She can't exactly put her finger on why she allows them to keep up their little charade, but something about her discovery has lifted a weight from her shoulders. It's almost... a relief? She avoids thinking about Finn and Raven and throws herself into her work. The light in her office is on from an ungodly hour to the morning until long after the sun has set over the Washington, DC, skyline as she takes conference call after conference call with dignitaries from all over the globe and fills out hundreds of forms.

When she isn't hidden away in her office, Clarke gives Finn the silent treatment. It's a little childish, but definitely worth it. She just really cannot handle yet another confrontation.

“Is everything okay?” Finn asks as he knots his tie, four days after the Christmas party. “Things have been really... quiet lately.”

“Just thinking,” Clarke mutters from in the bathroom.

“Do you want to talk?”

Clarke glowers at her reflection in the mirror. “I'm fine, Finn.”

Silence. Clarke, satisfied with her hair, stalks past Finn and into her walk-in closet.

“I've been thinking,” Finn speaks up, “we should take a vacation pretty soon. Just the two of us. Get away from it all.”

Clarke barely manages to mask her snort with a cough, thankful that she has her back to her husband as she flips through the obscene amount of dresses in her closet. “Sounds nice,” she murmurs.

Finn plants an uncertain kiss on the top of her head. “Have a good day. Dinner tonight?”

“Sure.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as Finn leaves their bedroom. She's not as furious with her husband as she would have expected, but still. There's no way in hell they're going on a romantic vacation anytime soon.

  


*

  


“Blake, thought you fell off the planet!”

Bellamy looks up from where he is stowing his lunch in his White House-issued locker and sends John Murphy a sour smile, only feeling slightly remoreseful about lying to his least favorite person in the building. Well, besides Finn. “Stomach flu.”

Murphy chortles and mock slugs Bellamy in the arm. “This place is goin' to the shitter.”

“We're on the job, Murphy,” Bellamy reminds him, glancing around the Secret Service locker room warily.

Murphy scoffs and shoves his earpiece in. “I swear, man, someday Finn and Clarke are going to blow this place up.”

Bellamy freezes, his mind racing. “Is everything okay?” Shit. He definitely should not have ditched for the past couple days. What if Clarke confronted Finn without Bellamy nearby to mediate the inevitable explosion?

“Everyone's walking on eggshells,” Murphy shrugs. “No one has seen Clarke talk to Finn since the Christmas party.”

Bellamy swallows thickly and tries to hide his interest. “Don't you do anything besides sit around and gossip?” Bellamy mutters as he slams his locker door shut.

Bellamy leaves Murphy, feeling slightly as though he is walking to his death as he heads towards the Office of the First Lady. His mind races over what few tidbits of information he has gleaned from Murphy. Have Clarke and Finn seriously not discussed his infidelity? Bellamy can't decide if remaining silent is totally typical of Clarke or completely against her nature. Either way, the First Lady does not seem like the kind of person to just sit back and take it.

Bellamy stands in the open doorway to Clarke's office and watches her. Clarke sits at her desk, hair hanging loosely over her shoulders and phone to her ear as she doodles on a yellow notepad. The corners of her mouth are tilted downwards, and her forehead is creased with thought.

“Mm-hm... Yes, thank you... You, too.”

As Clarke puts down her phone, Bellamy knocks softly, feeling slightly guilty about intruding on an oddly private moment. Clarke looks up, her expression immediately morphing into one void of any emotion.

“Ah, Blake,” she says brusquely. “Feeling better?”

“Clarke...”

“Did you forget how to do your job over the past few days?” she snaps. “Do you need a refresher?”

Bellamy shuts the door to her office behind him quietly. Clarke glowers at him over her desk.

“I had that open for a reason.”

“We need to talk.”

Clarke takes a deep breath and closes her notebook. “I'm sorry about what happened. It was inappropriate and won't happen again. Let's just forget it ever happened.”

Bellamy pauses, thrown by Clarke's words. When was the last time he heard Clarke voluntarily apologize? “Oh. I-”

“Is there anything else you need?” Clarke asks impatiently.

Bellamy clears his throat. “The motorcade leaves tonight at seven,” he reminds her.

“Oh, are you sure you're feeling well enough to accompany us?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. The question is innocent enough, but he knows Clarke enough to know that it's more than a little passive aggressive.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  


*

  


For the first time during his administration, Finn and Clarke aren't returning to the South to visit their families for the holidays. Instead, they decided to spend Christmas at Camp David with everyone at the White House who either didn't have a family to return to or the ability to travel home. Meaning Bellamy, Octavia, Lincoln, Raven, Monty, Jasper, Miller, and Murphy.

At this point, Clarke would rather gouge out her eyes with a rusty spoon.

They all meet in the lobby with their suitcases, bundled up in winter coats with wool scarves and mittens. Jasper tells anyone who will listen that DC is in store for the biggest snowstorm in a decade. Bellamy confiscates all of Monty's explosives with a hissed reprimand. Murphy takes a quick swig from a flask, grinning guiltily at Clarke when he sees her watching him. She just reaches out her hand and takes her own sip, shuddering as the liquid slides down her throat. Raven barks out a laugh at something Finn says. Clarke chugs half of the flask's contents and then slips it into her purse. Murphy is too impressed to protest.

Four black sedans, two of them just for Clarke and Finn's Secret Service Agents, pull up to take them to Camp David. Octavia giggles at the red noses on the front of the vehicles. Lincoln watches her in awe. Bellamy reaches out a hand to catch Clarke's hand before the flask can reach her mouth again.

“Slow down, princess,” he murmurs.

Clarke yanks her hand away and glowers at him.

Clarke, Bellamy, Raven, and Finn wind up in the same sedan, with Bellamy and Finn sitting in the back while Clarke and Raven take the middle seats. A pounding headache begins behind Bellamy's eyes.

Finn and Raven sing raucous Christmas carols for the majority of the drive. Clarke gives up attempting to be stealthy with her drinking. Bellamy pops several ibuprofen tablets. The Secret Service agents in the front seats completely ignore their passengers.

The drive takes longer than usual because of the declining road conditions, but once they arrive Bellamy can't deny that Camp David is a perfect escape for the President and First Lady from their hectic everyday lives. Covered under a shield of rapidly falling snow, the camp is starkly peaceful in comparison to the constant activity of the White House. The countryside is already blanketed with darkness as the black sedans pull to a stop in front of Aspen Lodge, where Presidents have stayed for decades. The one-story cabin, complete with four bedrooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a living room, five fireplaces, and a pool, is surprisingly modest to be the Leader of the Free World's personal retreat.

“Aw, how sweet,” Clarke coos. Her words slur together infinitesimally. Finn and Raven don't seem to notice, but Bellamy winces. “They turned on the lights for us.”

Clarke stumbles out of the sedan. Bellamy reaches forward to catch her arm and just barely keeps her from face planting into the snow. She tugs her arm away, shooting him an annoyed look.

“This is so nice!” Octavia squeals. She throws her arms around Bellamy. “Who would've thought that we'd both end up spending Christmas at Camp David someday, huh, big brother?”

Bellamy ruffles his sister's hair and grins down at her, keeping Clarke in his peripheral vision as she wobbles up the front steps. Christ. Whatever Murphy had in that flask must have been strong, because Clarke has never seemed like a lightweight before.

“You can all sleep in here!” Finn announces as they shed mittens and scarves in Aspen Lodge's entryway. “There's no need for you to stay in guest cabins.”

“I can stay with Lincoln,” Octavia volunteers with a wink.

Bellamy scowls at his little sister across the room. “Absolutely not.”

“Bell-”

“He's right,” Lincoln interrupts quickly. He doesn't look fazed when Bellamy's dirty looks are directed at him. “We'll all hang out together. That's the whole point of the holidays.”

Clarke reaches into her purse clumsily, only to find the flask nowhere to be found. She pouts, digging around inside.

“Can we get a tour?” Bellamy asks Finn hastily, praying that Clarke doesn't realize that he has her flask hidden in his coat pocket.

Finn shows everyone around, pointing out when different sections of the residency were added on and which changes were made by which presidents. Clarke spends the majority of the tour rolling her eyes and correcting his facts, much to Murphy's delight. Bellamy takes everyone's distraction as an opportunity to hide everything that Monty and Jasper could possible break. Which is the majority of the lodge's décor, but no one really seems to notice.

Finn pulls out some bottles of wine that undoubtedly cost more than Bellamy makes in a year, and the crowd toasts to not having families of their own to return to. Clarke spills some wine down the front of her dress but doesn't seem to notice.

Octavia curls up on Lincoln's lap, sticking out her tongue when she catches sight of the pinched look Bellamy is sending their way. Monty and Jasper get to work on starting a fire in the hearth. Murphy cracks inappropriate jokes that make Miller blush. Clarke gets smushed between Finn and Raven on the plush maroon couch, a queasy look on her face.

Raven gets up to make some popcorn, and Bellamy takes the chance to steal her spot next to Clarke.

“Smile, princess,” he whispers.

Clarke flicks him off. Finn guffaws at one of Murphy's colorful jokes.

“You're such an asshole, Bellamy,” Clarke whines around a large yawn. She leans his head on his shoulder, and Bellamy freezes. “I wish you wouldn't have-”

“Well!” Bellamy interrupts quickly. “I think it's time that I take Clarke to bed.”

Clarke frowns but lets him tug her off of the couch. She leans against him, eyes heavy. “It's so early,” she whines half-heartedly.

“Goodnight, Clarke!” everyone choruses.

Raven returns, a giant bowl of popcorn in her arms, just as Bellamy and Clarke are leaving.

“Going to bed already, Clarke?” Raven asks.

Clarke blinks, eyes narrowing at Raven. “Goodnight, you who-”

“Okay!” Bellamy interrupts, hoping that the panic on his face isn't as evident as it feels. “I'll be back out in a couple minutes, Raven.”

He steers Clarke around the Vice President and into the master bedroom. Clarke groans when he flips on the lights, throwing herself onto the bed face down.

Bellamy shuts the door behind them carefully. “You've had a rough couple days, haven't you, Princess?”

Clarke just moans in response.

“Getting drunk around your husband and his mistress probably isn't the best idea,” he chides softly. He slips Clarke's blue Crocs off of her feet to reveal Christmas fuzzy socks, just barely dodging out of the way as she rolls onto her back.

“What else am I supposed to do?” Clarke asks. She stares up at the ceiling with a glare that is surprisingly focused.

Bellamy sits beside her tentatively. “You deserve better than someone who cheats on you,” he whispers. “That's what I should have said to you when you came to me at the Christmas party.”

Clarke reaches over and grabs his hand, her lower lip trembling.

“Don't cry, Princess,” Bellamy pleads.

“Stay with me.”

Bellamy entwines his fingers with hers, torn. He shouldn't. The rest of their housemates aren't blind. But he really, really wants to. “I-”

Clarke lets out a soft snore, and Bellamy jumps slightly then shakes his head, mildly amused, at himself. He watches her sleep for a few moments, her chest rising and falling softly with each breath. The First Lady looks even younger in sleep as all of the worry lines creasing her forehead disappear with each passing second. She rolls onto her side and clutches his hand in both of hers.

Bellamy shakes his head slightly and brushes Clarke's blonde hair off of her forehead. Before tearing himself away, he places a gentle, lingering kiss onto her temple. “Goodnight, Princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on this little Christmas getaway at all, but I was hit with a major case of writer's block until this came to me! Now all of our favorite characters get some screen time, and Clarke and Bellamy are thrust into even closer proximity... ;)
> 
> Also I know this is kind of old news by now, but what are your thoughts on how season three has been pushed back? I think it's been confirmed, right? What do you think this means for The 100?? 
> 
> remember to send me some kudos/comments/subscriptions! Thank you all so much for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block. I'm sorry.

Clarke wakes up with a pulsing headache. Her eyes feel raw, and she's pretty sure that she has dried drool all over her face. _Lovely._

Clarke opens her eyes and groans as the bright sunlight burns her tired eyes. She blinks rapidly, trying to clear her head a bit. Her headache only intensifies. She lifts her head off of the bed in a weak attempt to see if that makes her feel better, but the room spins and her stomach flips. Clarke flops back on the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Clarkey?”

“What, Octavia?” Clarke croaks.

“Are you ready to join the world of the living?” Octavia giggles.

Clarke moans, her eyes still tightly clamped. “Stop yelling.”

“I'm whispering,” Octavia snickers.

Clarke feels the bed drop as Octavia sits on it delicately, and she focuses on not letting her dinner from the night before come back up.

“What time is it?” Clarke asks once her stomach has settled a bit.

“Almost eleven,” Octavia answers. “You're the last one in bed, sleepyhead. Bell's making pancakes.”

“Bless him.”

“I feel ya.”

“Where did everyone sleep last night?”

Octavia snorts and begins running her hands through Clarke's tangled curls. “You were the only one who got an actual bed. We slept in the living room sleepover-style.”

“Mm, sounds nice,” Clarke whispers. She leans her head into Octavia's hand.

“It was very middle school,” Octavia agrees.

“Did Lincoln feel you up under the sleeping bags?” Clarke teases.

“Only a little,” Octavia admits.

“O!” Clarke whines. She winces at the volume of her own voice and tones it down a notch. “Bellamy would kill you if he found out.”

“That's part of the appeal,” Octavia drawls smugly.

Clarke opens her right eye and squints up at her friend. “You disgust me.”

Octavia giggles as she hops out of bed and begins tugging on Clarke's right arm. “C'mon, sleepyhead, rise and shine!”

Clarke moves out of bed with a groan and sits on the edge, rubbing her eyes. When she finally stands, swaying a little as the blood rushes to her head, she notices her Crocs placed neatly on the floor next to her bed. The memory of Bellamy slipping her shoes off and tucking her in last night makes Clarke smile. A faint blush creeps up from her neck and into her cheeks.

Her suitcase is propped up next to the dresser, and Clarke quickly changes into a pair of black leggings, an oversized gray knit sweater that she rolls up to her forearms, and dark red fuzzy socks. She twists her hair up into a messy bun and pads out into the kitchen, where her friends are grouped haphazardly.

Bellamy stands at the stove, flipping pancakes on the griddle, wearing dark gray pajama pants that hang low on his hips and a black Henley. He grins at her over the counter. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Clarke attempts to muster up a scowl, but she's too focused on how his pants hug his hips and the slight five-o'clock shadow that darkens his jaw. _Fuck._

Raven and Jasper sit on kitchen stools. Jasper, wearing red plaid pajama pants and a graphic tee with some math joke on it that Clarke doesn't understand, is chattering away about some advanced physics theory, and Raven is doing her best to tune him out as she scarfs down her pancakes. Jasper's hair sticks up in even more directions than usual, and Raven's eyeliner is slightly smudged under her eyes. She is swaddled in a black bathrobe that drowns her slim frame.

Lincoln sits on Jasper's other side, scanning the newspaper in front of him as Octavia wraps her arms around his shoulders. He has already changed into slim-fitting jeans and a smart black blazer over a white t-shirt. He looks up at Clarke's entrance and gives her a small smile.

Finn pours orange juice into crystal wine glasses. He wears his thick black glasses that magnify his eyes and a big Yale sweatshirt. “Did you sleep okay in there, Clarke?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says shortly. She shuffles forward and takes the last seat at the counter, on Lincoln's right side. “Where are Miller and Monty?”

“They woke up super early,” Jasper answers, making Clarke wince at the volume of his voice, “and went out to go snowmobiling.”

“And you guys didn't go with them?” Clarke asks.

“If the sun isn't awake, then I'm not either,” Raven declares.

Bellamy slides a giant plate with five pancakes on it in front of Clarke. “Best hangover cure I know. Syrup? Butter? Whipped cream?”

“Whipped cream? On pancakes?” Clarke raises her eyebrows. “That's a thing?”

“Oh, you poor sheltered child,” Bellamy groans.

“You never put whipped cream on your pancakes?” Octavia gasps. “It's tradition at the Blake household.”

“That's it,” Bellamy declares as he shakes the can and begins spraying the white fluff on Clarke's plate in circles, “you're going to have whipped cream on your pancakes. You don't have a choice.”

Finn sets a glass of orange juice down in front of Clarke a bit harder than necessary, and some juice sloshes up and over the side. Clarke makes eye contact with Bellamy over the counter. He raises his eyebrows at Finn's heavy hand.

“What's going on, Finn?” Clarke asks with forced casualty.

Finn clears his throat and dries his hands on a Christmas-themed hand towel, ignoring his wife's dare to tell their friends how he is really feeling. “Nothing,” he says shortly. “I'm going to go get dressed.”

He jogs out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. In a weak attempt to ease the tension, Clarke takes a big bite of her pancakes. She wrinkles her nose and takes a sip of her orange juice as she thinks the whipped cream over. “Okay,” she admits, “that's pretty good.”

Bellamy whoops. Octavia pokes Clarke in the side. “Told you so!”

“See?” Bellamy grins. “There's a method to our madness.”

As soon as Clarke has finished her breakfast (meaning eaten half of the pancakes on her plate and given the rest to Bellamy), everyone goes to their respective rooms to get dressed before going outside to enjoy the day. They meet in the entryway, decked out in snow pants and thick winter jackets, heads topped with fuzzy caps. A couple members of the Camp David staff brought over sleds earlier this morning, and Jasper enthusiastically weighs the pros and cons of each sled while they wait for everyone to get dressed.

Finn fumbles through a weak explanation as to why he is unavailable to come sledding with the rest of the group. It's only when Raven decides to stay back to help him with some conference call that just came up that Clarke realizes that maybe her husband's excuse is just that: an excuse.

And so she marches out into the tundra with Bellamy, Octavia, Lincoln, Jasper, and Murphy, wincing as the wind hits her cheeks. They make an interesting group: Jasper bouncing along like an eager puppy, Octavia hanging onto Lincoln's every word (not that there are many, but still), Murphy trudging a little ways behind and sarcastically muttering expletive-filled comments under his breath, and Clarke and Bellamy attempting not to talk about anything related to Finn, Raven, or their unstable friendship. So basically not really talking at all.

They meet up with Monty and Miller, and somehow their slightly awkward sledding attempts become fun. Bellamy and Murphy team up to take Monty and Jasper in a snowball fight. Octavia and Lincoln race each other down the hills.

Once the group has lost the feeling in their toes and their noses have become permanently wind-whipped, they tramp back inside, grumbling good-naturedly about their damp socks and rumbling stomachs. Clarke has managed to forget about her cheating, good-for-nothing husband for several hours, and she considers that a success.

The sun sets early, bathing Camp David in its glow as they pile into Aspen Lodge. Raven and Finn are in the midst of cooking pasta in the kitchen while a song Clarke doesn't recognize blares through the hallways.

“You're back!” Raven exclaims. She waves in their direction with the spatula she had been using on the sauce, sending red flecks flying onto Finn's dress shirt. “Oh, shit, Finn, I'm so sorry...”

_Only Finn would wear a dress shirt while on vacation,_ Clarke thinks with a roll of her eyes. She barely manages to cover her snort of annoyance with a feigned cough. 

Bellamy takes her winter coat. “If you wear a dress shirt for a casual day at the cabin then you deserve to get pasta sauce on it,” he whispers in Clarke's ear. 

As their ragtag group settles around the large dining room table, Raven's pasta in front of them with garlic bread and Caesar salads, Clarke can't help but feel a strange sense of fondness as she looks around at her friends (is that what they all are? Coworkers seems far too impersonal, but friends might be pushing it...). Sure, Monty and Jasper can be immature and Octavia has a tendency to ignore everybody else in favor of Lincoln, but they're still preferable to her real family. Even if her husband is cheating on her with his Vice President. 

Finn makes a toast, clearing his throat and staring pointedly at Monty and Jasper until they settle down. Clarke kicks Bellamy's ankle when the toast gets too cheesy for her taste, and he struggles to keep a straight face as Finn finishes. Raven remains enamored. 

The group watches Disney movies and plays board games until the wee hours of the night, when they start falling asleep in the midst of the dozens of pillows and blankets they have scattered across the living room floor. As Clarke catches Bellamy's eyes across the bodies of their sleeping friends, the corners of her mouth curl into a small smile. Maybe this vacation hasn't been all bad after all. 

 

*

 

The next day is Christmas morning. Clarke had one of her assistants buy Christmas gifts for everyone, and she presents them without much flourish at all. Gift cards, books, candy. A tie for her bastard of a husband. The presents are wrapped, but only because Clarke's assistants are used to her settling for nothing less than the best. 

Finn gives her some stationary with her name emblazoned across the top. It's very pretentious and not Clarke's taste at all, but she indulges him with a kiss on the cheek anyways. Raven looks like she just sucked on a lemon. Bellamy is quiet for a long while after. 

Later that day, Clarke, a tried and true introvert, slips away from the constant activity of Aspen Lodge to capture a moment alone. She pulls on her warmest, most comfortable winter boots and slips a long black jacket on over her sweater and leggings before disappearing from the cabin into the crisp winter air without saying a word to anyone.

Clarke hikes along her favorite walking path. Someone has plowed it, probably guessing that she would need a chance to escape over the course of their long weekend, and so the trek isn't difficult. Rather rocky, but not impossible by any means. She stuffs her hands in her pockets, wishing that she had remembered to grab the mittens she brought home from Norway. 

Bellamy catches sight of Clarke just before her blonde hair slips into the dark trees surrounding Aspen Lodge. He just barely has enough time to put on his own jacket and trot after her. He keeps a safe distance, unable to ignore his sudden urge to observe the First Lady in what appears to be her natural habitat. After all, how often is Clarke actually alone, without her endless supply of overbearing assistants and lost interns trailing behind her?

Clarke stops when she reaches her favorite lookout point. It's a good fifteen minutes walk from Aspen Lodge, and she's not entirely sure that anyone else even knows about it. The path has become less traveled in that area, and she has to leave the wood chips and wade into the calf-height snow in order to get to her spot, where the trees fall away to reveal a gorgeous view of the snow-capped valleys of the Camp David property with the winter sun setting behind them. A wooden fence, paint chipped on the spots that sag with age, separates her form the steep hill. Without a second thought, Clarke closes her eyes and lets out the long sigh that she has been itching to let out for who knows how long. Finally, a moment alone...

“Clarke?”

Clarke jumps and whirls around, her eyes snapping open. “ _Bellamy_ ?”

Bellamy steps out from the trees. He has the decency to look slightly abashed at the slightly murderous look on Clarke's face. “Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's fine.” Clarke closes her eyes briefly, rather surprised that the majority of her irritation at being disturbed faded away when she recognized that her shadow was Bellamy. If someone had to follow her out to her hiding spot, at least it was him. 

Bellamy cautiously takes a few steps forward until he stands next to her. He tears his eyes away from hers to look out over the trees. “Wow. This is a great view,” he murmurs. 

“You don't have to whisper,” Clarke says softly. “The trees aren't going to run away.”

Bellamy looks back down at her, a small smirk on his face. “Then why are you being so quiet?”

Clarke shrugs, blushing slightly. “I don't know. I've never taken anyone here before.”

“I'm sorry,” Bellamy apologizes guiltily. “I didn't realize that I was following you to a special spot.”

“Why did you follow me?”

“It's not very safe for the First Lady to sneak off alone,” he mutters. 

“Cut the shit, Bellamy,” Clarke sighs. 

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck and shuffles back and forth in the snow, wincing as some slips down into his boots and burns his ankles. “I dunno,” he admits. “I hardly ever get the chance to catch you alone.”

He doesn't look away from her, suddenly confident in the brief moment of silence after his admission. Clarke stares back, her gaze daring him to continue.

“Perks of being the First Lady,” Clarke finally whispers when it becomes apparent that he isn't going any further. She turns away, breaking the moment, and rests her tingling hands against the mottled wood of the fence. 

“I was an asshole,” Bellamy confesses softly. “You were hurting and you came to me and...” He falters, lost for words. “I'm sorry, Clarke. You deserve better.”

“You were right, though,” Clarke says. “I was just coming to you to get back at Finn.”

Bellamy freezes, trying to tramp down the hurt that flashes through him to the core at her words. A moment later, confidence restored, he steps forward until he stands directly behind her, just a whisper of space between them. “You don't mean that, Clarke Griffin,” he murmurs. A shiver runs down Clarke's spine. “You can lie to everyone back there, you can make them believe what you want them to, but you can't fool me. I know you. Stop pushing me away, Princess.  _Please_ .”

Clarke turns slowly to avoid breaking the moment, and her eyes meet his. He's momentarily surprised by the unusual vulnerability that shines up at him from the fearless princess's sky blue eyes.

“It was inappropriate,” she whispers, a last-ditch effort at putting up a fight. 

Bellamy swallows. “Either you're in or you're out, Clarke. Stop trying to make it seem like I'm trying to force you into something you don't want. But you need to tell me. Right now. Or I'm out. For good.  _I_ deserve better.” 

This time when Clarke kisses him, Bellamy is ready for it. He catches her when she stumbles into him, when she pulls him down to her level. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her even closer. She giggles into his lips when he flinches as her frozen fingers slip up his neck and into his hair. It's slow and sweet, and Bellamy can't help but grin when they tumble apart at the sight of Clarke's mussed hair and swollen bottom lip. She blushes and buries her head in his neck. 

“I got you a present,” Bellamy says quietly. He digs around in his coat pocket and pulls out a hastily-wrapped small box. “I didn't know if I would get the chance to give it to you, but...”

Clarke looks up at him with a small frown. “You didn't have to-”

“I know.”

Clarke pulls away from him to open it. Her numb fingers stumble with the plain red wrapping paper. She opens the little box to reveal a simple gold chain with a small triangle on it. 

“I wasn't planning on getting you anything,” Bellamy says quickly, “but I saw it and it made me think of you. It was kind of an impulse buy, so it's fine if you don't like it. I can return it-”

“Bellamy,” Clarke interrupts. “It's perfect. Thank you.”

Bellamy grins, and it's almost childlike. The relief that takes over his expression is nearly comical. 

“Will you put it on me?” Clarke prompts. 

Bellamy slips off his mittens, placing them on Clarke's cold hands, to take the thin necklace into his hands, fumbling with the small clasp for a moment. When he finally manages it, the necklace is cool where it rests against Clarke's collarbone. She reaches up a hand to feel the triangle, giving it a gentle tug, before turning to face Bellamy. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. She stretches up on her toes to place a lingering kiss on Bellamy's jawbone. “I love it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYYE.   
> Thoughts?


	8. Chapter 8

A talk show host comes to the White House to interview Clarke on their first morning back in DC. The host is everything Bellamy expects: tall, blonde, tanned, with a set of perfectly white teeth. Annoying as hell. He idly wonders how much she money spent to get those pearly whites as the talk show crew puts a mic on Clarke's royal blue dress. The host's hair is too perfect, too big. Her eyes are too blue, and her shoes are too tall. Everything about her is just... too much. At first glance, Clarke looks plain in comparison. Her modest dress comes up to her neck and is slim around her waist. It's subtle. Classy. Her neck is void of any of the flashy jewels that the talk show host is apparently so fond of. Clarke looks perfect, Bellamy decides. His heart feels too big, like it's going to overflow and drown everyone in the room with his happiness. He's full to the brim with light and happiness. It's painfully cheesy and he would never admit it to any of his friends, but everything feels right.

And she isn't even his.

Bellamy watches, invisible in his role as the dutiful Secret Service Agent, as the talk show host fawns over Clarke. Clarke forces out a fake smile in return, and they discuss talking points for the interview. Crewmembers scurry about Clarke and the talk show host, fixing their makeup and adjusting the camera angles. Clarke's gold triangle necklace glints in the harsh camera lighting. Bellamy's heart thumps against its cage in his chest painfully.

The talk show host comes over and introduces herself to Bellamy. _Portia_ , she says, _as in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar_. As though Bellamy should be impressed. He tells her that he has always considered Shakespeare to be overrated, and Clarke chokes on her water from across the room.

The talk show host, sorry, _Portia,_ doesn't take the hint. She just snorts out an exaggerated laugh and places a hand on his arm, cooing about how _funny_ Bellamy is and how _brave_ he must be to be a Secret Service agent. Her voice is too loud, her obnoxious giggles too nasally. He wills her to go away.

A few moments later, once Portia is clearly starting to get bored with Bellamy's lack of flirting reciprocation, the camera men are shooing Portia and Clarke back into their plush chairs. Clarke hates those chairs, she told Bellamy once. Too gaudy, too expensive, she had groaned. They were trying too hard to be the “in thing.” Just not her style.

But when Portia compliments Clarke on the _gorgeous_ White House décor, Clarke grins and brushes a stray lock of hair off of her forehead and thanks Portia, slipping in a demure joke that Bellamy rolls his eyes at. He's pretty sure that Clarke is internally rolling her eyes, too. Portia rattles off the usual questions: how is White House life treating you, how to do keep your marriage strong in such trying times, what is your favorite White House meal, when can we expect babies? Clarke plays along, making little jokes and smiling in all the right places. She's straight-up _charming_. There's no hint of the demanding, unflinching politician that Bellamy is so in awe of. This is a whole new side of Clarke, one that he has seen only bits and pieces of.

And he doesn't know how that makes him feel.

“Which one is the real you?”

“I'm sorry?”

Bellamy is walking with Clarke out to where a motorcade awaits them, ready to whisk the duo off to a speaking engagement at an all-girls school in one of the poorer DC suburbs. Now off-camera, Clarke has slipped out of her heels and has shooed away her assistants after snatching her speech notes from them, grumbling about how unnecessarily overbearing they can be.

“That person in there,” Bellamy says cautiously, knowing very well that he is treading on uncertain territory, “she was completely different than the woman I see in the Situation Room. And that woman is completely different than the you I saw when we were at Camp David.”

Clarke sighs. “What are you getting at, Bellamy?”

He knows her. He knows by the tone of her voice that if he just waits, stretches on this awkward, bumpy silence, that she will cave first and tell him what he wants to know. And she does know what he's asking. She just doesn't like it.

“I'm all of those people, Bellamy,” Clarke continues, as he knew she would. “I have to be, in order to survive in this world. If people didn't like me, if they couldn't relate to me, then they wouldn't be able to relate to the White House. That's my role here. I don't like it and I try to avoid it as much as possible, but I'm not going to deny that the sole purpose of having a First Lady is to relate to the public. That's how it's been for decades. Centuries, even. So I smile and laugh and put up with nitwits like Portia because nobody takes me seriously. They send in the real reporters to talk to my husband, even though I'm the one pulling the strings behind the scenes. But I'm okay with that. Because if I wasn't, if I gave up on Finn and let him do things his way, the whole administration would fall. Not in the sense that the government would fall itself—he's not a _complete_ idiot—but he would mess up a few times. Nothing major, but just enough so that we would lose credibility. Those nasty liberals who write all those blogs? The ones that accused me of being a closet lesbian last week? They'd tear him apart. At first it would be funny. It'd be a little bit like karma. I might enjoy it. But then people would start realizing how incompetent he really is, and they'd start talking, and pretty soon everything good we've accomplished in his presidency would be overshadowed by the failures, the awkward moments where he didn't understand what complex foreign policy matters were being discussed. And _that_ is how we would go down in history.”

“So you're taking one for the team,” Bellamy finishes for her.

Clarke nods in muted agreement.

“So I'm taking one for the team.”

 

*

 

Things aren't all rainbows and sunshine. Bellamy and Clarke don't take off on a storybook love affair, complete with rose petals at their feet and violin music in the background as they ride off into the sunset. She wears the necklace, though, and sometimes, when she's in the middle of a speech or hugging a little girl at a meet-and-greet or slaving over paperwork, she'll look up and catch his eye, and the softness she sees there, the promise of something more to come, makes Clarke tingle from her fingers to her toes. There's a promise of things yet to come, a promise whose comforting glow Clarke hasn't felt in a long time.

“Did you get a new necklace?”

Clarke looks up to see Finn standing in the doorway of her office, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. She glances down at her watch, an inauguration gift from some expensive name brand. It's stuffy and reeks of prestigious bullshit, but it's comfortable. So she wears it, only hating herself a little every time she does. “Shouldn't you be in a meeting with those French diplomats right about now?”

It's physically impossible for Finn to screw up relations with France. It's the _French_ , after all. What clout do they have in international relations? None. Christ, have they even done anything worth noting since helping the United States win the Revolutionary War? Finn might be completely tactless, but he's not an idiot. He can bullshit his way through a quick lunch with them.

“Raven said she would do it. Do you-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clarke snaps. _Please be a joke please be a joke please be a joke._

“It's the French, Clarke. You said it yourself: they're nearly irrelevant nowadays.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean that you can completely butcher relations with them!”

“Is everything okay in here?” Bellamy, bless him, hovers behind Finn, dark eyes trained on Clarke as he gauges her expression.

“If you had just let me _explain_ ,” Finn says through gritted teeth, “I would have told you that there is a new development on the Sterling Morgan kidnapping case. I sent a handwritten note with Raven, explaining that a deeply important matter of national security has come up and inviting them to dinner tomorrow night with us _in our home_ to make up for the inconvenience.”

Clarke hates apologizing. She physically cannot. “Sterling Morgan?” she asks in a small voice.

Finn knows her well enough to recognize that her apology comes in the form of dropping the subject of his luncheon with the French. He clears his throat and pauses dramatically, clearly relishing finally having Clarke's full attention.

“He's escaped.”

 

*

 

The Situation Room, JFK's addition to the basement of the West Wing after the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion, has seen its fair share of history. With its five Watch Teams that monitor domestic and international events, the Situation Room receives a constant flow of information on matters of national security. During the Vietnam War, Lyndon B. Johnson used the Situation Room so often that he left his Oval Office chair down there. It's where President Obama and his advisors monitored the Osama bin Laden raid.

And now it's where Clarke paces furiously. Lincoln argues quietly with another one of Finn's advisors. Bellamy and Murphy stand on either side of the door, expressions perfectly neutral and detached as they observe the scene in front of them. Finn glowers at the news report that is scrolling across the screen, screaming _AMERICAN HOSTAGE ESCAPED??_ for all the world to see.

“Who alerted the media?” Clarke asks sharply.

Lincoln clears his throat. “At this point, I'm inclined to believe that it was the group itself that rang the alarm. We only found out about it from the news, and I don't know how anyone from our camp could have reported his escape if we didn't know about it ourselves.”

“So what do we do?” Finn asks. “I've been telling you all along: we should've sent troops in after him a long time ago. It's a publicity nightmare! Do you know what this is going to do to my chances of reelection?!”

Clarke can't hide the roll of her eyes that bursts out of her. “We've gone over this a _thousand times_ , Finn!” she snaps shrilly. She rubs her fisted hands against her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. A thought comes to her, and it's one of those that she just knows is about to be brilliant. She can feel it in her gut. “Do we even know that this is for real? Has Morgan actually escaped?”

 

*

 

Finn stumbles in long after she has turned in for the night. Three in the morning. Four, maybe. He thinks he's quiet, he tries to be, anyways, but Clarke's husband runs right into their dresser, tipping over her glass perfume bottles. They clatter about and he swears, muttering angrily to himself as he clumsily attempts to right the pricey containers. Clarke lies on her side, pretending to be fast asleep. She doesn't know how Finn falls for her weak act, especially after the way her spine tensed as her bottles scattered about the antique dresser. _But Finn is the same as always,_ she thinks hotly: _oblivious, self-absorbed. Drunk._

Finn collapses into bed next to Clarke a while later, heaving out a deep breath and sinking into their world-class, plush mattress. It's too expensive and unnecessarily a high-end name-brand, but it's prestigious. No one other than Finn and Clarke and maybe Raven (depending on how much of an asshole Finn really is) will ever really see the stupid thing, but why not choose the prestige that a mattress will undoubtedly bring to their bedroom? It's a stupid thing to get worked up about, but somehow it gets to Clarke every time she walks into their bedroom. But what can she say? She hates wasting taxpayer dollars.

Clarke waits until Finn's breathing evens out, until her always-oblivious husband falls into a deep slumber that only he and children can really achieve. It's rather symbolic, after all, Clarke thinks wryly. Her husband, naïve with his rose-colored glasses, sleeps in the same way that children do: as though everything will sort itself out and turn out just perfectly in the end. As though Mummy and Daddy will solve everything before he wakes. It's so very _wonderful._ Meanwhile Clarke lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling now that she knows that her husband won't see her and attempt to make stilted bedtime conversation, dancing around the taboo topic of their nonexistent sex-life and the enormous pressure from _everyone in the country_ to procreate.

_How did we get here?_

When they were first married, Clarke knew that she didn't love her husband in the way that storybooks weave pictures of princesses living happily ever after with their princes. But she thought the end goal would be enough. Now that they're here, now that Bellamy is around and beginning to show Clarke everything she is really missing by settling for Finn, it's not enough. They have the presidency. They have history. But Clarke doesn't really have it. What's mine is ours, and all that. But that's not how it will work in history. Finn will take the credit for her successes. And she will be remembered for her parties, Clarke realizes bitterly, for how good of a hostess she was. For her charm. Maybe she'll get lucky and they'll remember for what kind of liquor she served (or refused to serve, in the case of Lemonade Lucy Hayes).

_Fuck._

 

*

 

Clarke doesn't have much experience with romance. She was a teenage girl once, one who fantasized about great love affairs and read trashy romance novels online, but her fantasies usually centered around her winning the presidency before winning her true love's heart. Hell, sometimes the fantasies _only_ centered around her winning the presidency. Now that is one epic love affair.

Her lack of experience is the main reason as to why Clarke is so surprised at how naturally things come with Bellamy. Stolen looks, a bubble of nervous excitement deep in the pit of her stomach, the few extra minutes spent in front of the mirror in the morning. It's very stereotypical.

Their moments don't happen often. How could they, when Clarke and Bellamy are constantly surrounded by an array of assistants and advisers and makeup artists? (Clarke is horrified when Octavia brings in the latter, but she can't deny that her lack of sleep as of late has greatly contributed to the growing puffiness under her eyes.)

And so when Clarke grabs Bellamy's hand as he walks by, pulls him into a dark corner of the West Wing, he's shocked. To say the least.

“You're wearing your necklace,” he whispers stupidly. He has Clarke standing in front of him impatiently, off her staff's radar for the first time in what seems like forever, and all he can think about is how that delicate necklace around her neck makes an area of his chest that feels suspiciously like his heart tingle. Is that even _possible_?

Clarke tugs him into a dark room and pulls the blinds to the hallway and the snow-covered gardens outside closed, effectively cocooning them in some random staffer's office. “Yes, Bellamy,” she finally answers, “I am wearing the necklace you gave me.”

Bellamy grins down at her slowly. Clarke loses her train of thought slightly, suddenly realizing how many freckles Bellamy really does have gracing his nose. She's never put much thought into _freckles_ , of all things, but damn... Clarke pushes him away in a vain attempt to hide the blush that creeps up her cheeks, pulling his arms from around her waist and slowly beginning to unbutton her pale blue blouse. She bites her lip and raises an eyebrow, daring Bellamy into action.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans.

Bellamy lunges forward, slipping one hand up to Clarke's neck to tangle in her hair and pressing the other firmly against her lower back until she is flush against him. Clarke tugs off his headset and tosses it to the side. Bellamy kisses Clarke roughly, pushing her backwards until her thighs rest against the edge of the wooden desk.

And then he fulfills the promise he made to Clarke, the devilish vow in which he promised to show her how absolutely _wonderful_ it can be to lose control.

He lifts her up onto the desk and guides her back. Pens and papers and cups scatter off the desk and onto the floor loudly, but Clarke is too focused on Bellamy's lips on hers, the way his fingers trace the contours of her body, to allow her OCD tendencies to run wild.

Bellamy traces his lips over her jaw, down her throat, and to the spot in her neck where her pulse thrums. He pauses, nipping and sucking gently.

And then Bellamy's pager goes off, effectively destroying the mood. Bellamy groans, his head falling heavily onto Clarke's breastbone.

“ _Blake?_ ” comes a tinny voice from his headset, which has been tossed onto the floor along with half of their clothing. “ _Location of FLOTUS?_ ”

Bellamy clears his throat and reaches down to grab the headset. “With me. West Wing Conference Room. All good.”

“ _Copy that_.”

Bellamy stands, pulling Clarke up with him. He attempts to straighten her up, to button her blouse and smooth down her tangled hair, but she curls herself around him, slipping her arms around his waist underneath his suit jacket.

“Do we have to go?” Clarke whispers into his collar.

Bellamy brushes her hair to the side, combing his hands through it lazily. “Sorry, princess. Duty calls.”

Clarke straightens his tie, and Bellamy picks up the pens and pencils that they scattered across the floor in their haste. They survey the room, not touching, until they both deem it satisfactory. Clarke opens the blinds last, blinking at the harsh light that floods the room.

They leave quietly, not touching.

Suddenly this new-found _something_ doesn't seem quite so perfect.

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to sit down and figure out exactly how long this fic is going to be, now that Bellamy and Clarke are FINALLY starting to get it on hehehe, so the chapters will probably start becoming more action-packed and not just me making stuff up as I go! Woo!   
> As always, thanks for all of your kudos/comments/subscriptions/etc. I appreciate them all!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK. 
> 
> I'm sorry about the wait. I really am. But this is one of my longer chapters, and it definitely can not be called a filler :))  
> Thank you all for the comments/kudos/subscriptions. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside, and they are what truly keep me motivated! It's nice to know that people care about this in the way that I do. 
> 
> Enjoy.

“There is a special place in my heart for the arts.”

Clarke stands at the famous podium in the White House Briefing Room, her halo of golden hair shining underneath the bright lights. The bright blue background is as official as ever. She looks paler up there, Bellamy thinks from the back of the room. Smaller. More fragile. But no less determined. No less a force of nature.

“When I first began college,” Clarke continues, one corner of her mouth turning up slightly with nostalgia, “I was convinced that I would somehow major in arts and become a political hurricane at the same time.”

Cue chuckles from the reporters, who have somehow become enraptured and—does Bellamy dare think it? What if he jinxes Clarke's moment?--not _completely_ bloodthirsty as a result of Clarke's fascinating public speaking persona. Something about her presence commands everyone's full attention and, as Bellamy glances around surreptitiously, he realizes that every single person in the room is looking at Clarke as though she is the sun and they are the simply orbiting around her. Maybe he's not so different from them after all.

“While politics is quite obviously a lifestyle for me,” Clarke says, “I like to think that art is my one true love. Art fills the one spot in my heart that I think we all reserve for the passions that we just can't make work as our day jobs. A hobby sounds far too... simplified a word for the emotions I feel when I have a paintbrush in my hand and a canvas in front of me.

“And that,” Clarke continues sharply, her tone abruptly hardening as her mouth narrows into a hard line, “is why I am so _infuriated_ that so many schools are being forced to cut art programs. As an adolescent, the one art class that I allowed myself each semester was the one thing that kept me sane through a vigorous class schedule filled with economics and political theory. It gave me an out, kept me on the right path as I struggled through the problems that many teenagers deal with every day.

“Today I am thrilled to formally announce the birth of Clarke Griffin Foundation for the Arts,” Clarke says. Her voice echoes through the room, confident and proud of her announcement. “Over the next few years, we will fight tirelessly to provide our country's struggling youth with the art programs that will help get them back on track. We will offer scholarships to talented artists and lobby for legislation to protect the arts. We will change how this country views the arts. Any questions?”

The room comes alive as the reporters' hands rise in unison, and Clarke is illuminated by the flashes of cameras.

“I'm not going to argue with you, Robert,” Clarke sighs at the snobby gray-haired man's question, “athletics are very important to young people as well. I'm not in any way attempting to undermine the positive affect that sports have. But athletics are dominating our society. When was the last time that you saw thousands of people turn up to view young artists' work in the way that they do at a Minnesota high school hockey state tournament?”

That gets an agreeable chuckle from everyone in the room. Clarke motions to a third-row blonde woman and listens to her question carefully.

“I will be hosting an event at the White House next week,” Clarke replies, “that will honor low-income young artists' achievements. Their work will be displayed for the Collins Administration's financial contributors, who will then bid on the works. All of the money will go towards sending the artists to college.”

The crowd breaks out in applause, startling Bellamy, who looks around the room in surprise. Whenever he's sat in on press conferences, which doesn't happen all that much, admittedly, because Clarke usually avoids them like the plague, the members of the press have reminded him of wolves circling their prey. And half the time they gang up on each other. Christ. As far as Bellamy is concerned, it's worse than dealing with terrorists.

But Clarke, of course, is a natural, no matter how much she hates it. She handles the reporters with the ease of a practiced press secretary, charms them like an actress, teases them with the dry wit of a comedian. Bellamy can't help but feel like he's witnessing the First Lady make history, as horribly cliché as that sounds.

Afterward, Bellamy escorts Clarke back to her office, where she has a short break for lunch before she's due to meet the artists being featured in the Clarke Griffin Foundation for the Arts Fundraiser. (Bellamy doesn't fail to notice the lack of hyphenation of Clarke's surname. He's more than a little pleased.)

Clarke pulls off her teetering nude heels with a groan, flopping down into her black leather desk chair. Bellamy quietly shuts the door behind him.

“Did I do okay?” Clarke asks. Her eyes are closed tightly and she somehow manages to swing her legs up onto her desk in one swift motion. _Muscle memory,_ Bellamy figures with a grin. Kind of like how frogs' legs move after they die. Or something like that. _Bad analogy, shut up, Bellamy._

Bellamy moves behind her, his hands falling to her blazer-clad shoulders. It's pale pink, and it makes her look even more angelic and innocent than her blonde hair already does. He likes its stark contrast to her usual bold blues and reds.

“You did amazing,” he says softly. He kneads her shoulders softly, and her head falls back slightly, her mouth open slightly as the tension slips away. “I'm proud of you, Princess.”

Bellamy places gentle, open-mouthed kisses on the sensitive spot behind her ear, slowly trailing his lips to her pulse point. Clarke offers him a breathy sigh, and he smiles against her throat. Clarke's hand drifts up to tangle in his dark curls.

“Clarke?”

Bellamy and Clarke spring apart at the sound of Harper's voice and the three precise raps on the office door that come along with it. Bellamy retreats to a safe distance, adopting his usual stance with his hands clasped behind his back and eyes straight-forward in an unobtrusive stare.

Clarke clears her throat quietly, swinging her legs under her desk. “Come in, Harper.” Her words are perfectly level, giving no hint of what her secretary has just interrupted.

Harper pokes her head into the office. “The kids are starting to arrive. You have a while until they'll all be here, but just so you know. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“Excellent, thanks, Harper. Jasper, Monty, and Monroe are still accompanying Bellamy and I, correct?”

“They've been talking about it all morning,” Harper says with a grin. “I watched a little bit of the press conference. You looked good, boss.”

“Thanks, Harper,” Clarke smiles back. “Just, you know, a typical day on the job.”

“There's a reason why you're the boss.” Harper winks at Clarke before backing out of the room.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Bellamy releases a large breath and reapproaches Clarke. She reaches out and grabs his hand in hers, pulling him the rest of the way until he stands in front of her between her legs as she looks up at him.

“That was close,” she whispers.

Bellamy runs his other hand through her hair. “It's always close, Princess.”

Clarke moves to punch him in the gut, rolling her eyes. “You are so sassy.”

“Wow, way to make a guy feel masculine.”

“I can think of a few other ways to make you feel masculine...” Clarke bites her lip and raises her eyebrows, her eyes sparkling.

Bellamy groans and entangles himself from Clarke, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head quickly. “Oh, Princess, believe me, I know. But right now you need to eat and look over those files that came in the mail yesterday.”

“You're a drill sergeant, you know that, right?”

Bellamy snorts and pushes the salad on her desk towards her. “Coming from you. Eat. You have five minutes until we should head down.”

Clarke glowers up at him but caves and stabs the lettuce with her fork viciously. “We have the best chef on the planet, you'd think he would have figured out a way to make calorie-free pasta by now.”

“Maybe you should hold another press conference.” Bellamy sprawls across one of the chairs in front of Clarke's desk, stealing a crouton from her salad. “Clarke Griffin Foundation for Fat Americans. I like it.”

“Clarke Griffin Foundation for Looking Good on Camera.”

“Clarke Griffin Foundation for Keeping That Hot Ass Lookin' Fine.”

Clarke snorts, a blush creeping up into her cheeks. Bellamy's smug smirk only widens at her next words. “Clarke Griffin Foundation for Getting Some Time Alone with Her Hot Bodyguard.”

“Clarke Griffin Foundation for How to Ditch the POTUS.”

“Clarke Griffin Foundation for Buying Poison from the Chinese.”

“Clarke Griffin Foundation for Your Hot Ass is Gonna Be Late to Meet Those Kids So You Better Get a Move On.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and stands, chewing as she slips back into her teetering heels. “Funny. Shit, I really am going to be late, aren't I?”

“A princess is never late. Everyone else is simply early.”

Clarke pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “Bellamy Blake, did you just quote _The Princess Diaries_?”

“Shut up,” Bellamy says with a roll of his eyes. “O was obsessed with it up until last year, practically. I've seen it thousands of times.”

Clarke giggles, earning a surprised look from Harper as the duo passes her desk on their way out.

“Jordan!” Bellamy barks over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought. “Green! Monroe! Are you waiting for a formal invitation?”

The interns scramble after him, eyes wide with fear. Harper sighs with relief and closes her eyes momentarily as she is finally given a reprieve from Jasper's constant chattering. God bless small miracles.

 

*

 

“Welcome to the White House.”

Clarke stands in front of a group of roughly thirty high school students in the lobby. They look around in awe at the furnishings, which are lavish compared to what they're used to, if the incomes listed on their applications were any indication. Some of them are dressed in too-big button down shirts and khakis that are just an inch too short, while others wear ragged t-shirts and shorts. They all look at Clarke in astonishment, as though they never thought this would actually happen. Clarke can't help but glow a bit at the ragtag group standing in front of her; they are just what she had in mind.

“My name is Clarke Griffin-Collins, and I am the First Lady of the United States,” Clarke continues with a grin. “But you can call me Clarke.”

Bellamy trails slightly behind the group, keeping an eye out for any stragglers while watching Clarke out of the corner of his eye. She looks completely at ease as she works the group. She somehow manages to give them a tour of the White House while talking with and connecting to each and every student individually. If the looks of adoration on their faces are any indication, she's doing a fantastic job. For the second time today, Bellamy feels as though his heart is about to burst from his chest with pride.

Clarke ends the tour in the ballroom, where their artwork is already on display. “I want you all to know that I made sure that I was very involved in the process of selecting you all for this opportunity,” she says, making eye contact with every student. Her voice is clear as it rings through the large room. “I was incredibly impressed by all of your talents, and I want you to know that. I know that you all have other things going on in your lives. You have experienced very difficult things and hurdled many struggles, but that in no way impacts your future success. I have every reason to believe that you all have very bright futures ahead of you. I. Believe. In. You.”

Jasper whistles under his breath. “Damn. She sure knows how to win people over.”

“You should be taking notes,” Bellamy mutters.

Jasper rolls his eyes. “I'm shadowing _you_. Believe me, I have no political aspirations of my own.”

“Good.”

“Shit, what's up your ass?”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “Nothing, Jordan. I just think that maybe you should learn to treat your superior with a little bit more respect. I didn't make my way to the top by using inappropriate language and feeling overly comfortable in my surroundings.”

Jasper snorts. “You were in the army. No inappropriate language, my ass.”

Bellamy can't help but grin at that one. “Shut up, Jordan.”

“By the way,” Jasper says casually. “Is your sister single?”

“I will fucking murder you, Jordan, don't you dare come within five hundred feet of Octavia.”

“Damn.”

“And if I wasn't scary enough for you,” Bellamy says darkly, “Octavia is unfortunately seeing the President's National Security Advisor. So by all means, if you've been experiencing some suicidal feelings, make a move on my little sister.”

 

*

 

 

Clarke is back to her usual terrifying self almost immediately after she sends the artists back to their hotel to settle in before they begin touring the city. She bites off Monroe's head for accidentally double-booking her on next week's schedule. She orders Bellamy to stay in his spot and “try not to piss her off for five fucking minutes” when he tells her to chill. He just rolls his eyes and does as she says.

That's why, when she gets a call that her presence is requested in the Situation Room in order to view a new piece of information in the Sterling Morgan case, Clarke completely loses her shit.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she snaps as she slams her laptop shut, “why can't they just kill him off already?! I don't have time for this shit. We all know that's how it's going to end anyways.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy teases, “eat a Snickers. We all know how you get when you're hungry.”

“Oh, fuck you.” She is definitely not impressed by his attempt to lighten the mood. (Even if those stupid commercials do always manage to make her laugh. God knows why.)

“Maybe later, Princess.” Bellamy winks.

Clarke blushes despite her overwhelming desire to strangle him.

“Reschedule my afternoon meetings, Harper,” she orders as they pass her secretary's desk. “I'll be in the Situation Room.”

Harper nods and says something quietly to Monroe, who makes a quick note on her notepad. Bellamy motions for Monty and Jasper, who have been stationed outside of Clarke's office, to follow. They look elated. And a little horrified.

Clarke walks at a speed that has the three men trailing behind her jogging to keep up. Even the click of her heels on the floor sounds angry.

When she reaches the Situation Room, she rounds on Jasper and Monty, both of whom are slightly out of breath. “You two stay out here. Do not disrupt this meeting, am I understood? If there are any chemical explosions or tapped ear pieces or God knows what else, I will personally kill you both with my bare hands,” she says sharply. She glances around quickly before whispering, “Agent Blake and I will explain everything to you later.”

Clarke pushes her way through the glossy doors loudly, leaving a dumbstruck Monty and impressed Jasper in her wake. She is the last person to arrive, and everyone looks up at her appearance.

“Good of you to join us,” Finn says drily.

“Why should I hurry? This asshole's not going anywhere,” Clarke says bluntly as she motions toward the television, where a now-muted video of Sterling Morgan is playing. “I _told_ you that he didn't actually escape.”

Finn sighs. Bellamy struggles to hold in his snicker. Lincoln wordlessly plays the video.

Sure enough, Sterling Morgan is still in captivity. He looks rougher than in previous videos; a violet bruise blooms across his left cheek, and his bottom lip is swollen and split. His hair is wild and unkept, and he has grown an equally neglected beard. Sterling has obviously lost weight, and he looks to be a shell of the person he once was. The shackles hang on his raw wrists much more loosely than they did when he was first kidnapped.

“My name is Sterling Morgan,” the gaunt man rasps. He holds a newspaper that is dated yesterday in his trembling hands. “I was recaptured by my captors. May I, ah, may I please have a glass of water?”

The camera bobs, and Sterling's eyes focus on something behind the camera.

“Fine,” he says harshly. The sore on his bottom lip cracks and begins bleeding, dribbling slightly onto his chin. Sterling takes no notice, refocusing on the camera in front of him instead. “I am going to keep this short and sweet. I am teaching them how to make our bombs. They will not hesitate to use them on American soil. You will make the trade if you know what is good for you.”

The camera bobs again before the television goes black.

Clarke looks immediately to Lincoln. It's rare that she feels out of her depth in the Situation Room, but this is one of those instances. She will never admit it, but seeing Sterling on the screen like that has shaken her. While he has never given the appearance of residing in a five-star hotel, the soldier has never looked downright abused.

Until now.

“Major news outlets have already begun running the story,” Lincoln says quietly. “I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you, this isn't good. The public was able to distance themselves before, but Sterling has made a direct threat to the safety of Americans. If we're being optimistic, I think we can expect some protests. We'll have to beef up security wherever you go. Realistically? I think you both need to prepare yourselves to be under a lot of scrutiny in the coming days. It's going to be tough.”

“But what about the threats themselves?” Clarke asks pointedly. “We can't just ignore them. We have to take it seriously.”

“I've been telling you from the beginning that we should go get him out!” Finn speaks up.

“We'll do the standard extra security measures. The FBI will naturally do an investigation. Airport security will be on high alert. Most importantly, however,” Lincoln says, “I think we need to have you do a press conference, Mr. President.”

Finn pales noticeably. “Me? Why me?”

“Because you're the goddamn President of the United fucking States!” Clarke snaps. “Are you shitting me right now?”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Raven sneers. “As if you are so high and mighty. News flash: no one fucking cares how much you love painting.”

“Fuck you, Raven,” Clarke snarls across the table. “What, exactly, does the Vice President do? Sit around and wait for Finn to kick the bucket?”

Lincoln slams a giant hand down on the table, making everyone's coffee mugs rattle precariously. “That's enough!” he bellows. He looks around, glaring at each member of the Security Council. “I don't care what you all have against each other. This is a serious matter; it's not just about this man's life anymore. They have made a terroristic threat against the United States of America, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit around and listen to you all bicker about who deserves to have the biggest ego while Americans' lives are endangered.”

Clarke takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. “You're right,” she says stiffly. “What do you recommend, Lincoln?”

“You and Finn are going to sit down with his speechwriters and come up with a speech that will placate the America people without antagonizing the terrorists,” Lincoln commands. “In the meantime, I expect everyone's security details to be increased round-the-clock. The rest of us will contact the FBI and investigate further. Any questions?”

 

*

 

That night, Octavia is already reading in bed when Lincoln stumbles into her apartment in the middle of the night. Her hair is still damp from her shower, and she purses her lips as her dark eyes drift over the pages of the worn book she cradles in her hands. She is bathed in the soft golden glow of her bedside lamp, and Lincoln can't help but stare for a moment as he leans against the door frame, his muscles aching from a long, stressful day at work. How can anyone be pushed to the point of torture and terrorism when something like this fills him so completely? Makes him feel so complete?

Octavia jumps when she sees him standing there. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Hey, stranger.”

Lincoln toes off his shoes and tosses his suit jacket on the floor before crawling up next to her on top of the blanket. Octavia wraps herself around him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“I saw the news today,” she whispers into his neck.

Lincoln rubs a hand down his face wearily. “This is a nightmare, Octavia.”

“It's really serious this time, isn't it?” she asks.

Lincoln twirls a strand of her dark hair in fingers. “I worry about you, you know,” he murmurs. “I don't like that you're at the White House.”

Octavia frowns up at him. “Why?”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he confesses. “There's no happy ending this time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a Lincoln in my life. 
> 
> I officially have everything planned out, so we're looking at roughly sixteen chapters right now. Who knows, though, because writing this gave me some pretty crazzzy ideas.
> 
> Suggestions/questions/inappropriate jokes are all welcome and appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took forever, but it's the longest chapter yet! Woohoo!

“No, no, and no.” Clarke Griffin-Collins takes a deep breath in through her nose, closing her eyes and reminding herself of the long list of reasons why she can't strangle her husband. (#1: He's the leader of the free world.)

Finn frowns at her from across his office. He holds the speech they have come up with, the margins filled with scribbled additions and edits, in one hand. “What did I do this time?” he sighs finally.

“It's all about inflection,” Clarke says. She stands and begins pacing the length of the Oval Office, lost in thought. “If you emphasize the beginning of the sentence, you'll make it seem like you're all talk. The public won't think that you have an actual plan in place.”

“We _don't_ have an actual plan in place,” Raven says sourly from her spot on the light gold couch. Her long dark hair is tied back in a thick ponytail, and she wears a skintight red business dress that makes Clarke's upper lip curl on sight.

“Why are you here, Raven?” Clarke snaps.

Raven opens her mouth to retort but is interrupted by Elizabeth Fox, Finn's chief speechwriter.

“We don't have time for this,” Fox says firmly. “The press conference is scheduled to begin in two hours, whether this speech is polished or not.” She pauses, looking between the stubborn politicians in front of her. “And I've never sent the President on with an unpolished speech.”

Clarke breaks eye contact with Raven first, glancing at Fox apologetically. She genuinely likes the quiet brunette, who has been around since the very beginning of Finn's presidential campaign. Fox doesn't hesitate to speak up when she has an idea and is, in Clarke's not-so-humble opinion, by far one of the more intelligent people in the White House. Plus she has been known to put Finn in his place once or twice, so Clarke likes her even more.

“Clarke is right,” Fox continues levelly. “A large portion of public speaking isn't the actual words that come out of your mouth; it's body language and vocal tone that really sell it to your audience. _That's_ what makes a good public speaker. _That's_ what will earn you the public's trust in this difficult time. They need to see their fearless leader, _not_ the uncertainty that you are all feeling right now.”

Finn surveys Fox suspiciously. “Are you sure you aren't a motivational speaker?”

 

*

 

Clarke and Finn walk into the Briefing Room together. Presenting a united front and all of that. Clarke is nearly blinded by the flashing of cameras, and she looks around quickly. Bellamy stands at the back of the room, hands behind his back. He nods at her, just a fraction of a head tilt, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Clarke feels immediately more at ease.

The press conference is efficient, as the Collins Administration has always seen to. Finn takes the podium after shaking some hands, and Clarke sits off to the side with Fox.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Finn says. He clears his throat, and his eyes dart around the room. Clarke can tell that he's nervous, but only because of years of watching him speak publicly.

“As you all know, a loyal American soldier by the name of Sterling Morgan has been kidnapped by one of the Middle East's worst terrorist groups in decades. We have been following this delicate situation carefully for a great deal of time and doing everything we can to keep the situation under control.”

Clarke nods along as he delivers the speech exactly as she and Fox had instructed him to, hitting all the right points. He's doing well, and the press seems to be responding about as well as they could have hoped.

“That is why, after much careful consideration,” Finn says, pausing to take a deep breath, “we have decided that we cannot allow this to go on any longer. Sterling Morgan's condition has been continually declining. He is one of our own, and I will not allow one of our soldiers and therefore our country to be disrespected in this way.”

Clarke's heart jumps into her throat as Finn deviates from the script. _No, no, no, he cannot be doing this..._

“If Sterling Morgan is not returned safely by Wednesday morning at nine o'clock, I will have no other choice than to take severe military action against Morgan's captors. This is not a threat; it's a promise.”

The press goes wild. Half of them are on their feet, pelting questions at Finn. Several look completely befuddled, and others are scribbling frantically on their notepads.

Clarke feels physically sick to her stomach. Years of perfecting a bland poker face are the only reason that her face doesn't betray the pure fury coursing through her veins.

“No questions, please,” Finn continues. “Thank you. Good night. God bless America.”

He steps off the stage to the sound of dozens of camera flashes, and Clarke is briefly blinded by the sudden rush of light from all directions. Finn slips through his staff, clearly attempting to avoid Clarke. Allowing her poker face to slip, Clarke storms through the path that materializes between the stunned staffers in front of her, Fox hot on her heels. They don't catch up to Finn until he reaches Octavia's office, and he has nearly slipped into the Oval Office when Clarke loses it.

“Finn Collins!” she bellows.

Octavia jumps in her desk, sending a jar of paper clips flying onto the plush carpeted floor. Finn freezes, silhouetted in the door frame.

“What was that?” Clarke demands.

Finn pivots, his expression stony. Clarke, easily recognizing _the look_ , mentally steels herself for the knock-down, drag-out fight that is about to erupt. Octavia briefly considers if she has time to go make some popcorn, but decides that she doesn't want to risk missing what might end up being the fight of the century. (Mayweather v. Pacquiao? Who?)

“That was me taking control of the situation, _Clarke_ ,” Finn snaps.

Bellamy, Lincoln, and Murphy burst into the room together, all slightly winded as they look around wildly.

“You did the exact opposite of what every single fucking person told you to do!” Clarke howls shrilly. “Were you even paying attention in the Situation Room? Who sat at the head of our table and listened as we explained the _entire fucking problem_? Because it certainly wasn't the moron of a President that just gave that press conference!”

“Mr. President,” Lincoln chimes in, considerably calmer than Clarke, “you have to understand how serious this is.”

“Of course it's serious!” Finn has the audacity to sound offended at Lincoln's condescension.

“You basically declared war,” Bellamy speaks up.

Finn scowls at Bellamy. “Secret Service agents are meant to be seen and not heard,” he says scornfully.

“You fucking assho-”

“Clarke,” Bellamy warns firmly.

She scowls at the warning look Bellamy gives her but closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Finn,” she says with forced calmness, her eyes still closed, “what in _God's name_ was going through your head?”

Finn huffs. “I'm going to be declaring my run for reelection soon,” he explains sourly. “National unity is no better than at the start of a new war. My approval ratings will skyrocket when we get this guy back and get rid of those asshole terrorists!”

Clarke gapes at her husband in horror. “So you just stood in front of the whole country and demanded a war so that you would _better your chances of being reelected_?!”

Finn nods, unashamed.

Clarke lets out an enraged combination of a scream and a gasp, launching herself at Finn. Bellamy manages to step in front of her at the last second, grabbing her around the middle and lifting her straight off the ground as he muscles her backwards. Clarke spits expletives at her husband, struggling against Bellamy's hold. She knees him in the stomach, and he lets out a surprised puff of hair as the wind is knocked out of him. Finn looks horrified. Octavia watches gleefully, barely able to restrain herself from pulling out her iPhone and recording the whole thing.

“Do you have any idea what you have just done?” Clarke half-sobs. Her back is pressed up against the far side of the office, and Bellamy hovers in front of her, gauging the situation carefully. “Do you know how hard I've had to work to keep your name clean? To get you this presidency? You fucked this up, Finn! You fucked us _all_ when you went rogue up there! Every single fucking one of us!”

Finn scoffs. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I'm going to fucking murder you!” Clarke yells. She somehow manages to get around Bellamy but is stopped by Murphy, who glowers down at her.

“I know you're mad,” Murphy says darkly, “but you can't threaten the President.”

Clarke glares up at him but backs up until she's safely in Bellamy's shadow. “Fuck you, Murphy.”

Murphy rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, but changes his mind when he sees the dangerous warning look Bellamy sends him.

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Bellamy says firmly. “We can't undo what just happened out there. Yes, it makes a lot of our jobs considerably more difficult, but it happened. We need a plan of attack. We need to figure out a way to spin this that prevents you from looking like a laughing stock, Mr. President, and ideally returns Sterling Morgan home. All of you need to be on top of your game in order to save this. You can't let your personal feelings get in the way of what has to be done. You can save this. You have to.”

Octavia is tempted to break out into applause at her brother's speech, but she's fairly certain that half of the people in her office wouldn't hesitate to strangle her. So she settles for sending Bellamy a small smile and making a mental note to tease him about his fondness for motivational speeches later.

“At least your delivery was good,” Fox grudgingly says to Finn. “Maybe I'll be able to find a halfway-decent job after this blows up in your face.”

 

*

 

The world goes a little crazy after Finn's Press Conference. The crowd of protesters around the White House grows exponentially within the hour. Reporters from all around the world set up camp outside the gates. For several hours, every single trending topic on Twitter is related to the Press Conference and Finn's claims.

“Don't these people have jobs?”

Bellamy glances up at Clarke, who peers through the white curtains at the crowd gathered outside of the White House gates. “This is important to people, Princess,” he murmurs before going back to the paperwork sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

Clarke sighs and turns away from the window. “What are you doing?”

“Helping catalog the recent death threats that have been sent to you,” Bellamy mutters.

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “You sound awfully blasé about that.”

“Believe me,” Bellamy says sharply, “that is the last thing I'm feeling.”

Clarke sits down next to him on the couch and gently tugs the papers out of his hands. He leans back and allows her to curl into him, her head buried in his neck as he wraps an arm around her.

“Are you okay?” Clarke whispers against his skin.

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand and clenches his eyes shut. “I worry,” he admits finally, “that someday one of these psychos is going to do something to hurt you.”

“That's what you're here for,” Clarke reminds him gently.

“I'm human, Clarke,” he says, his voice dry. “So many things could go wrong at any given time.”

“They won't.”

“Don't be naïve.”

Clarke tenses against him. “I'm not,” she says coldly. “No First Lady has ever been assassinated, Bellamy.”

“That doesn't mean that there haven't been attempts!”

Clarke pulls away. “You're scaring me,” she whispers shakily.

“ _Fuck._ ” Bellamy leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands down his face wearily.

“I need you right now, Bell,” Clarke says firmly. She swipes at her eyes, her expression hardening as she pushes her tearful moment of weakness aside. “I'm scared and stressed and frustrated, and I _need_ you to be here for me.”

“Clarke-”

“Don't try to make it seem like I'm overreacting. Please.”

Bellamy sighs, tentatively reach out to rub a hand down her back. “I'm sorry.”

Clarke nods her acceptance of his apology. “Don't worry about me,” she pleads.

Bellamy shakes his head with a sad smile, carefully running his hand through the hair that falls down Clarke's back. “Oh, Princess,” he says solemnly. “I'm never going to stop worrying about you.”

 

*

 

“You're not going to like what I'm about to tell you.”

Clarke folds her arms across her chest and watches as Bellamy shifts nervously in the door frame to her office. “Is that why you're telling me this with the door open? In full view of my secretary and the other members of my security detail?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you right now.”

Clarke powers down her computer and leans back in her desk chair. “I'm listening.”

“We need to cancel some of your upcoming appearances,” Bellamy tells her bluntly.

“Excuse me?”

Bellamy takes a few cautious steps into Clarke's office. “It's for your safety.”

“You're joking,” Clarke scoffs in disbelief.

“It's just not practical,” Bellamy says defensively.

Clarke surveys him shrewdly before standing and wordlessly slamming her office door shut behind him. “Take a seat, Bellamy.”

Bellamy's jaw clenches at her use of his full name, but he does as Clarke says. She frowns at him over her desk. He stares back, unapologetic.

“Which ones?” Clarke asks finally.

“For starters, your speech at that new center for troubled youth in Detroit,” Bellamy reads off of his tablet. He looks up at Clarke just in time to catch the unconvinced look that drifts across her face. “It's a rough area, Clarke. There have been a lot of protests there after Finn's announcement, and it's notorious for violent crime. I wasn't sold on the idea of going there from the beginning, but now I really think it's too risky.”

Clarke rubs her temples. “It's important for me to show those kids that I believe they can succeed,” she explains.

“So we'll send a letter,” Bellamy says dismissively. “We can record your speech and send it to the center or something.”

“Fine,” Clarke allows. “What else?”

“Your upcoming visits to the Planned Parenthoods across the country should be scrapped, also,” Bellamy tells her.

“What? Why?”

“They have a similar demographic to the people who have been writing with promises of your upcoming death at their hands,” Bellamy says shortly.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Bell?”

“I know this is important to you, but your safety is our main concern.”

“Fuck safety.”

Bellamy glares at Clarke across her desk. “Not funny.”

Clarke shrugs. “Kinda funny.”

“We also think that the art exhibit for the Clarke Griffin Foundation for the Arts is risky,” Bellamy plows on.

“Absolutely not.”

“It's highly publicized, and security there is going to be a nightmare.”

“It's the inaugural event for my foundation!” Clarke argues.

“It's too dangerous.”

“It's held _at the White House_!” Clarke yells. “I hate to break it to you, Bellamy, but doesn't get much safer than that!”

“We're only thinking of your safety.”

“I'm not budging on this.”

“Neither am I.”

“Well, good thing I'm your boss, then,” Clarke snaps. “The exhibit is happening whether you like it or not.”

“This isn't coming from just me, Clarke,” Bellamy says angrily. “I sat in a three hour meeting yesterday to review the safety protocols and decide if every fucking thing on your schedule was safe enough.”

“Excellent! Congratu-fucking-lations!”

“Don't use that tone with me, Clarke.”

“Then don't be an idiot!”

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Bellamy explodes. “Do you think I like doing this? I know how proud you are of these events and how much they matter to you. I hate to do this to you, but you know what? I hate the thought of something happening to you even more. _Everyone_ is sacrificing here, Clarke. _Please_ don't make this more difficult for me than it already is.”

Clarke's jaw drops. “You think I don't know about sacrifice?! All I do is sacrifice, Bellamy,” she laughs harshly. “I-I can't deal with this today. You can show yourself out.”

“Clarke-”

“Out, Bellamy!”

“I don't like this.”

“Then don't do it!” Clarke retorts. “Now if you'll please excuse me, I have a lot of clean-up work to do after Finn's little mid-life crisis.”

“Clarke-”

“If you don't leave, I'm going to call security.”

“I _am_ security!”

Clarke stares at him blankly, unimpressed. “Don't push me, Bellamy.”

Bellamy snarls angrily under his breath and stomps out of her office, letting the door slam behind him.

 

*

 

“Do you think Bellamy and the First Lady are, y'know, a _thing_?”

Monty chokes on his popcorn and pauses _The Big Bang Theory_ before turning to face Jasper. “What?”

Jasper shrugs and pushes his goggles further up on his head. “I've seen the way he looks at her,” he says with an obnoxiously over-exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

“She's married!” Monty protests.

“She's a politician,” Jasper says wisely. “Marriage doesn't mean a thing to her.”

Monty frowns, genuinely upset by Jasper's theory. “I don't think Mrs. Collins would cheat on the President.”

“Have you seen Bellamy?” Monroe speaks up finally. She looks up from the intricate braid she's in the middle of doing on her own hair. “I'd do him in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, God,” Monty groans. He flops back onto his and Jasper's sagging couch in defeat.

“She has a point,” Jasper agrees. “I'd go gay for that man.”

“Shut up, Jasper,” Monty and Monroe say in unison.

“Just ask him,” Monroe suggests as she goes back to her braiding.

“Have you seen him?” Jasper asks in horror. “I've lost track of how many times he's threatened my life!”

“Then ask the First Lady,” Monroe proposes.

Jasper snorts. “As if she's any less terrifying.”

“I think I'm more scared of her than Bellamy,” Monty agrees with wide eyes.

“Then _stop gossiping_ about it,” Monroe commands, “and play the show.”

Jasper makes a face but does as she says. He doesn't care what anyone says; Bellamy and Clarke are _so_ a thing. 

 

*

 

“Is there a reason why my brother has been moping around constantly for the past couple days?”

Clarke freezes and stares at herself in the full-length mirror in her closet. _Shit._ “Not that I know of,” she calls.

“Hm,” Octavia's voice comes from Clarke's bedroom. “Do you have the next dress on yet, Clarkey?”

Clarke finishes zipping the light pink gown and steps out, just barely managing to avoid tripping over the long train. Octavia lies on Clarke's bed, engrossed in Clarke's extensive jewelry box. She wears black yoga pants and a gray sweater, a purple baseball cap backwards over her messy dark hair. 

“Ooh, that one's nice,” Octavia grins. “Now, tell me: Are you interested in furthering your work with the needy and generously donating some of this jewelry to the Octavia Blake Fund?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Take whatever you want, except for the top shelf. That's stuff that I still have to wear to promote the jewelers.”

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Octavia sighs happily. She holds up a sparkling silver statement necklace to her neck and hums in approval. 

“The dress, O,” Clarke reminds her. “Focus.”

Octavia looks Clarke up and down shrewdly. “It's a little... Princess-y. You're not nice enough to pull that off.”

Clarke swallows the lump that appeared in her throat at Octavia's casual use of Bellamy's nickname for Clarke. “Gee, thanks, O.”

“You love me.” Octavia holds up a pair of gaudy emerald earrings to her ears. “These look expensive.”

“They look like something that a real housewife of New Jersey would wear,” Clarke grumbles.

Octavia wrinkles her nose and puts the earrings back carefully. “Gross.”

“So the dress is a no?” Clarke asks.

“Save it for your first kid's baptism,” Octavia suggests.

“I highly doubt that my children's baptisms will be black tie events.”

“You never know. You are the First Lady. Your kids will probably have parades thrown at their birth and streets named after them,” Octavia points out.

“That sounds awful.”

“Yeah, well, what isn't awful about being a member of the First Family?” Octavia pauses and frowns. “No offense. Try on the red one. Everyone looks hot in red.”

“That one's really, um, form-fitting.”

“So? You have a hot bod.”

Clarke does as Octavia says with minimal grumbling, much to Octavia's delight.

“So,” Octavia says once she has unzipped Clarke, “about my brother.”

It takes everything in Clarke not to sprint back into her closet. “What about him?” she forces out instead as she walks back in at a careful pace.

“I think he has a girlfriend,” Octavia smirks.

Clarke slips out of the pink dress and reaches for the red one, grateful that her face is hidden from Octavia. She has a good poker face, obviously, but Octavia can read her better than anyone except, well, Bellamy. “Oh, really?” She winces at how high-pitched her words come out.

“I'm thinking maybe Roma,” Octavia muses.

Clarke frowns. _Who the hell is Roma?_ “Remind me of who that is, O,” she manages.

“One of his exes,” Octavia says. “She's this hot brunette that he met a few years ago. Not much upstairs but that's, y'know, Bell's type.”

Clarke definitely did not know that Bellamy has a type (specifically the hot, brunette, bimbo kind), but she manages a _mhm_ that she thinks sounds passably indifferent.

“Let me see the red one,” Octavia calls.

Clarke hobbles out, convinced that the dress is about to tear right down her ass. Octavia snickers and motions for Clarke to go back into her closet.

“Blue one!” she commands cheerfully, to which Clarke _cheerfully_ debates the merits of stabbing herself in the eye with a fork.

They eventually decide on a sequin-covered nude dress that clings to Clarke's shape without being obscene. It's just classy enough to be appropriate and just flirty enough to make her actually _look_ like a thirty-year-old.

“People are going to be more interested in looking at you than at the actual art,” Octavia says happily.

“Don't be ridiculous, O.”

“For real, though, back to a serious topic,” Octavia says. “Can I actually take all of your jewelry?”

 

*

 

Clarke might be the First Lady of the United States of America, but that doesn't mean that she's above the silent treatment. Quite the contrary, actually. Her status just makes it all the more satisfying.

Bellamy gets the brunt of her silent treatment, with a bit sprinkled onto Finn as well. Although Clarke and Finn actually have to interact in public, so her strategy doesn't work as well with him. And it's not like they really talked in private before the press conference fiasco. With Bellamy, however, the silent treatment is quite successful.

But Clarke feels like shit.

Clarke hadn't realized exactly how much she relies on Bellamy. He is a constant presence at her side. Wherever she goes, he isn't far behind, constantly surveying the situation with his serious eyes, always ready to step in if things get out of hand. It's reassuring having the constant support that he provides, even if his eyes betray exactly how unimpressed he is with whatever is going on around them.

Bellamy is still Clarke's shadow, but it's different when they aren't speaking. She can't look to him when she gets overwhelmed or is uncertain of how to proceed. He can't pull her aside to whisper advice or encouragement. She can't call him into her office in the middle of the day to get his opinion or just to take a break from the work and talk about something _normal_ for once.

It's a bit upsetting, Clarke decides while in the middle of a meeting with some inconsequential foreign diplomat that she wishes would just _go away_ , that the only normal people in her life are the Blake siblings. Octavia can always be counted upon to force Clarke into acting her age. Bellamy will actually listen to her—not as the First Lady, but as Clarke Griffin, the blonde girl from down South who just _really_ needs to be taken seriously without having to make death threats for once. And now that she is refusing to speak to half of the people keeping her sane, things are getting a bit out of control.

But she won't break. She can understand why her security detail feels the need to be even more careful than normal about where she goes and what she does, but attempting to cancel the art exhibit is going too far. For the first time in a long time, Clarke is passionate about something she is doing in her role as First Lady, and they can't take that away from her. She won't let them.

And so, as unfair as it may be, Clarke is going to do exactly what she has learned to do by devoting her life to politics: she's going to fight dirty.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'd kind of forgotten that Clarke and Bellamy aren't for sure endgame on the tv show. I don't understand the whole Clarke/Lexa thing at all... It's just so unrealistic to me that Clarke would be able to forgive Lexa enough to forget that she is the reason that Finn is dead. Sigh. Rant over.
> 
> What'd you think? I thought we were overdue for some Jasper/Monty/Monroe time! Up next: Raven and Wick ;)
> 
> Thoughts? Suggestions? Kudos? Leave me a comment :)) (I read them all and they make my day every time I see them. I swear I will get back to replying!!)


	11. Chapter 11

“In closing, women and men should get equal pay for equal work. It's common sense, and it's long overdue, people. It's a no-brainer. Let's close the wage gap. Let's. Do. It. Now.”

Raven smiles broadly and steps back from the podium, waving as the applause rolls off of her. This is what feels natural. This whole public speaking thing? No big deal. She should be the one up there in front of all the cameras, not Finn.

Raven does the usual shaking of hands and thanking the audience profusely before Wick appears at her shoulder and whisks her away into a quiet room.

“That went well,” Wick says once the door has shut behind them.

“No need to sound so surprised.” Raven turns on her phone, curls her lip at an especially cheesy text from Finn. _Gross._ Doesn't he realize how easy it would be for someone to hack into his phone? There are probably half a dozen secret service guys hooting at Finn's lame excuse for a sext right now in some top secret room underneath the White House. Pathetic.

Wick rolls his eyes. “That was a _compliment_ , Raven.”

“Thank you,” Raven says with exaggerated sweetness.

“What's the plan?” Wick asks. He settles down on the couch next to her, and Raven kicks off her heels.

“There is no plan, Wick,” she grumbles. “I'm going to go home, eat an excessive amount of chocolate, and pretend that I don't have to go listen to a bunch of pig-headed old men argue all day tomorrow.”

“Do you ever get tired of putting on that faux-cold, bitchy face every morning?”

Raven's eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“I watch you every time you give a speech like that,” Wick says nonchalantly. “I can see how happy you are when you get up there. You're like a different person.”

“...thank you?”

“Have you ever thought about running for president yourself?” Wick persists.

Raven laughs harshly. “Wake up, Wick. I just gave a speech on the _pay gap_. This country isn't ready for me.”

“I'd vote for you.”

“That's different!” Raven argues. “You have to. It's practically a job requirement.”

“Tell me that you think that your fuck buddy is a good president,” Wick demands.

“Ex- _cuse_ me?” Raven stares at her Chief of Staff, frantically wracking her brain to figure out when she and Finn had slipped up. They had been so careful...

“I'm not blind,” Wick says condescendingly. “But focus, Raven. Tell me that you think he's good at running this country. If you can look me in the eyes and honestly tell me that, I'll drop this.”

Raven gapes at Wick. “I-I...”

“You can't!” Wick grins victoriously. “See? We all know it. Every single person in this administration knows that it's Clarke that keeps this ruse afloat.”

“What are you saying?” Raven snaps.

“Let's get rid of him,” Wick suggests bluntly. “He's holding us all back. It would be easy. Everyone would be better off, and no one would know it was us. You'd get your chance to be President, and this country would be spared from further trauma at the hand of Collins.”

“Wick!” Raven hisses when she finally manages to find her voice. (Is this what it feels like to have a heart attack?) “Are you shitting me? Watch what you say around here!”

Wick looks around carelessly. “I don't see anyone listening in.”

“There are eyes everywhere,” Raven warns him. “So you need to drop this.”

Wick stands and looks down at her, unabashed by his earlier words. “Think about it,” he says. “It's not that far out there. It's what we need, Raven. We have so much potential between the two of us. We're exactly what this country needs.”

 

*

 

On date of the inaugural event of the Clarke Griffin Foundation for the Arts, Clarke Griffin-Collins is a nervous wreck. She stomps around the White House, clipboard in hand and hair in a messy bun, growling orders at her staff and developing a nervous tick by checking the watch on her left wrist so often.

When two Secret Service agents, who have been recruited to hang silky purple drapes from the ceiling, nearly kill themselves on the admittedly unsteady ladders and start mumbling about OSHA and job descriptions, Clarke just about loses it.

“Where the _fuck_ is Bellamy Blake?!” she yells.

“He, ah, called in sick,” Miller says quietly from his spot on an orange ladder, eyes focused on the purple fabric in his hands.

All heads in the room swivel to see Clarke's reaction.

She doesn't disappoint. Her neck flushes a blotchy reddish-purple, and her eyes narrow to slits. “Sick?” she echoes, barking out a biting laugh. “Bellamy Blake doesn't get fucking _sick_. He just gets to be too much of a damn _quitter_.”

Jasper chokes back a laugh. Monty elbows him, eyes round.

“Get back to work, people!” Clarke hollers. “T-minus nine hours until guests start arriving!”

She watches at her workers jump back to their various jobs, scurrying around her like ants. It's rather impressive, actually, how productive a group can be when everyone from Secret Service agents to interns are forced into manual labor.

“Jasper!” she calls curtly.

Jasper jumps, eyes widening anxiously. “M-Me?” he whispers nervously to Monty.

“Go!” Monty urges, just as fearful for his friend's life.

Jasper jogs over to Clarke quickly, who glances up at him as he nears.

“Ah, Jasper,” Clarke says around the cap of her pen. She slips the pen into her bun and surveys the young man in front of her up and down. “You know how Bellamy does things around here, correct?”

“Uh...”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “Yes or no, Jasper.”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“Excellent,” she says brusquely. She hands him her clipboard, which a quick glance at tells Jasper that her to-do list includes roughly thirty-five unchecked items. “Make sure everyone stays on task and keeps this whole production looking classy but not stuffy. You understand the difference? You're in charge. Don't mess this up for me, Jasper.”

 

*

 

When Clarke descends the grand staircase several hours later, she looks like an entirely different person. Her hair is still up, but this time in a messy bun that took a stylist an hour to perfect. (Clarke thinks it looks nearly identical to what she had going on earlier in the day, but she just smiles and thanks the hairstylist kindly. She learned to choose her battles a long time ago.) And, okay, the messy bun does look pretty kickass, if she says so herself. She just doesn't want to see the bill for her hair appointment.

“Clarke! Hey! You look nice!” Jasper shifts back and forth nervously, tugging at the yellow-green tie around his neck.

“How did it go this afternoon?” Clarke asks.

Jasper blinks. “Oh, uh, y'know. It looks good in there. Turned out good. I think.”

Clarke reaches his level and glances over at him. “I put you in charge,” she reminds him pointedly.

Jasper lets out a slightly shaky breath and gestures towards the ballroom with his head. “Why don't you take a look for, um, yourself?”

Clarke purses her lips but does as he says, pushing open the large doors to the ballroom with more than a little trepidation as the realization of what she has entrusted to a lowly intern hits her. And, when she does see the ballroom, her jaw drops.

“Jasper,” she breathes.

And, okay, it's not her vision. At all. But Monty is playing around with some complicated-looking sound machinery (Where is her chamber orchestra..?), bopping his head along to a beat that somehow manages to be upbeat and soothing at the same time, and Miller chooses that moment to dim the overhead lights. And it's magical.

Purple drapes hang from the ceiling, creating a pinwheel at the center of the ballroom. White Christmas-style lights, Jasper's own touch, are mixed in, giving it an ethereal feeling. Circular tables are clustered in half of the ballroom, while easels and tables are set up on the other in order to display the artwork. The flower centerpieces, ordered last minute from Clarke's favorite florist, have been retouched with a bit of the white lights as well.

“You hate it, don't you?” Jasper asks. “I'm so, so sorry, Mrs. Griffin-Collins. We can definitely, uh, take it all down and redo it in the next half hour-”

“Jasper,” Clarke interrupts. She turns to face him, and he swallows audibly. “This is amazing. Thank you _so_ much.”

Jasper blushes a dark scarlet, and Monty lets out a loud whoop.

“But _where_ is my orchestra?!”

 

*

 

As it turns out, Jasper somehow managed to accidentally cancel on the orchestra when they called earlier to confirm their warm-up time. Hence Monty's new role as the DJ. Clarke has half a mind to yell at Jasper, just to teach him a lesson, but Monty is too good at his impromptu job for her to be mad. After all, Clarke herself said that she didn't want the event to be stuffy. Instead, she bites her tongue and tries not to bob her head _too_ enthusiastically to Monty's music.

The student artists arrive shortly before the event is scheduled to begin, all dressed in clothes that look a bit too short in the pants or a bit too big around the waist or a bit too out of style in general. Clarke feels hideously over-dressed in comparison until she realizes that maybe their rather scruffy appearances will only motivate the guests to bid more on the artwork.

The students look around the ballroom in awe, whispering amongst themselves and huddling together. Clarke quickly gets their attention, telling them to find their artwork and then the table placards with their names that are mixed around with the various guests. Clarke thought of the idea last night at about three in the morning, when she was too anxious to sleep. Why not seat the students amongst the gala attendees? That would give the guests the chance to get to know the students properly, perhaps inspiring them to bid highly on a specific student's work or maybe even donate money later on to help support the students and their goals. It was quite brilliant, if Clarke said so herself.

The cars begin pulling up to the White House at seven o'clock on the dot. First to arrive is a retired Senator from Wisconsin and his nosy wife, who asks Clarke if she's pregnant every time they see each other. (Tonight the answer is, unsurprisingly, no different.) Then comes the billionaire playboy who likes to hit on Clarke at every chance he gets. (The only reason he is invited is because of the generous, million-dollar donation he sends each year.) Next is the Hollywood power couple, dressed to the nines and captivating everyone within a ten-person radius. After that, the rush of people is too overwhelming for Clarke to do anything other than greet them warmly and offer the occasional personal anecdote, barely noticing whose hand she is shaking.

Raven and Wick come together but ignore each other the entire time. Finn is absent upon Clarke's request; the night is about the students, not his idiotic is-it-or-is-it-not war declaration. Lincoln and Octavia slip in at the last minute, hand-in-hand, and take their seats next to Raven and Wick.

The night goes off without a hitch. Clarke welcomes everyone to the event and gives a short speech about what this means to her and how long she has wanted to do something like this. One of the students, a quiet older girl whose rare smile somehow manages to transform her entire sad demeanor, says a few words about how important the new program is to her and her fellow students. There isn't a dry eye in the house once she is finished.

The food is delicious, the music is perfectly balanced, and conversation seems to flow well between the guests and the students. Once the three-course meal is finished, the students go stand by their artwork. Guests meander through, asking the students the occasional question or compliment. Clarke hovers, ready to step in if a student-artist isn't receiving enough attention, but she is never needed. The students are nervous but charming, and the guests appear delighted.

Unbeknownst to the students, Clarke has established a hefty minimum bid. And if no one bids on a certain piece of work? She plans to commission Octavia, Raven, Lincoln, and Wick to buy it for higher than the minimum bid using Clarke's own money. The art will then be displayed it at the White House for years to come. In addition, the students won't find out how much money their art had gone for until they check their bank accounts in a couple weeks. All in all, Clarke has planned out every single detail, making sure that no student will leave the event feeling blue about their lack of success.

As it turns out, Clarke doesn't have to buy any artwork. Every single student leaves beaming, thousands of dollars richer. Many guests find Clarke throughout the night, complimenting her on the event and the high-caliber of student-artists represented. She hears nothing about the Secret Service having to deal with any out-of-the-ordinary security measures. (Take that, Bellamy Blake.) As she falls into bed, exhausted and sore from wearing such high heels, Clarke feels as though a giant weight has been lifted off of her shoulders.

She just wishes Bellamy had been there to experience it alongside her.

 

*

 

Clarke Griffin-Collins doesn't apologize. It's just not her. She is Clarke Griffin-Collins, the brash, confident, badass First Lady of the United States of America. Unapologetically.

So when she finds herself on the front steps of Bellamy Blake's apartment building, a few days after the charity gala, staring up at his front door from underneath the hood of the black windbreaker she has donned in an attempt to hide her face from casual passerby, Clarke doesn't quite have a plan. All she knows is that she has messed up. Continually, when it comes to Bellamy Blake, who might just be the best thing that has happened to her in a very long time.

Clarke takes a deep, shaky breath and rings the bell. “It's Octavia,” she lies into the intercom.

Bellamy buzzes her in with only a mild amount of grumbling (“Did you seriously forget the passcode _again_?!) and Clarke makes her way up the flight of stairs and to Bellamy's front door. (She may or may not have used her connections to find out about where he lives, but she'll never admit to it.)

The red door opens to reveal Bellamy, clad in a plain white undershirt and black track pants that hang low on his hips. His socks are mismatched: one red with miniature reindeer, the other bright orange.

“Clarke?” Bellamy hisses. He reaches out, grabs her by the arm, and yanks her into his apartment, eyes wide and expression horrified. “What are you doing here?” he asks frantically. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“I came to see you.” _Duh?_

“You better have a security detail waiting around the corner...”

Clarke pushes the black hood off of her head, and snowflakes fall onto the hardwood floors of Bellamy's apartment. “Sorry.”

“Fuck, Clarke, what were you thinking?! You could've been killed! How did you even get here?”

Clarke shrugs, glancing around. “I like your apartment.”

She means it. The apartment isn't huge, but it's nice. The windows are big, letting in a good amount of natural light. It's furnished rather sparsely, as one would expect in a bachelor pad, but tastefully. Clarke has a feeling that Octavia is the one behind the small living room's black leather couches and the dark-stained cabinets in the kitchen.

Bellamy glowers at her. “Don't try to change the subject.”

“Please come back to work,” Clarke pleads.

Bellamy runs a hand down his face. “I can't.”

“I'm sorry,” Clarke blurts out. “I'm sorry about the silent treatment.”

Bellamy sighs and walks into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Clarke sits down on one of the bar stools and accepts the glass of water he hands her. Bellamy leans against the counter across the kitchen from where she sits, looking her up and down critically.

“The silent treatment was shitty,” Bellamy finally says, “but that's not why I haven't come to work.”

Clarke waits, knowing that Bellamy will get around to telling her exactly how she has messed up eventually, as he pauses dramatically.

“I'm angry with you because you won't let me care about you,” he says.

Clarke immediately goes on the defensive. Her mouth drops open. “What?!”

“Hear me out,” Bellamy says, giving her a warning look. “I told you that I was worried about you because of all of the threats, and you didn't consider my worries valid, despite the fact that I had the backing of your entire security team. When that same security team decided that your schedule would have to be changed in order to guarantee your safety, you threw a fit and didn't speak to me for days.”

“So basically you're pissed at me because I'm shitty at relationships and didn't do exactly as you told me to,” Clarke summarizes accusingly.

“You're not shitty at relationships!” Bellamy bursts out. “Shit, Clarke, stop turning everything I say into something critical! I worry about you, and you act like my feelings aren't valid! I fucking love you, dammit!”

They stare at each other in shock at his words.

“Clarke-” Bellamy finally says, his gentle tone a sharp contrast to his raised voice from only moments ago.

Clarke bursts into tears. “I'm so sorry, Bell,” she hiccups.

Bellamy runs a hand through his messy curls and crosses the small kitchen in three of his large strides. He hands her a napkin to dry her tears and tentatively reaches out to rub a gentle hand down her back.

“I don't deserve you,” Clarke admits, her voice barely audible. “I don't know how to be in a relationship that isn't about controlling and dominating the other person.”

Bellamy carefully wipes at her tears himself, a sad smile on his face. “Oh, Princess, you are so blind,” he murmurs.

Clarke sniffles. Bellamy moves so that he is standing between her legs, loosely tangling his fingers in her hair. Clarke buries her face in his shoulder, finally relaxing for the first time in days when she breathes in his familiar scent.

“I'm going to do better,” Clarke promises into his neck. “Just please don't make me go home yet.”

Bellamy bursts into laughter, the real, uncontrolled belly laughter that warms Clarke from the inside out. His chest shakes under her, and, for the first time in, well, as long as she can remember, Clarke feels purely, completely content.

 

*

 

As it turns out, playing hooky from life is one of the more enjoyable things that Clarke has done in years. Bellamy makes her a hot chocolate and they curl up in front of his television, watching _Maury_ and arguing on if Da'Mionn is really Latoya's baby daddy. (He isn't, and Clarke lords it over Bellamy until he rolls his eyes and agrees to make her a grilled cheese sandwich.)

“What's your favorite color?” Clarke asks from the couch as she watches him begin to heat the stove.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Your favorite color, moron. What is it?”

He meets her eyes from across the apartment. “Blue,” he answers without thinking. “Yours?”

“I think brown,” Clarke admits, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. “Is that weird?”

“Yeah,” he teases. “Favorite kind of ice cream?”

“Strawberry, of course.”

“Oh, gross. Haven't you ever had Snickers ice cream?”

“That's not an actual flavor!” Clarke argues.

Bellamy looks up from buttering the bread to grin at her. “I think I have some in the freezer if you want to try it.”

Clarke glowers at him but gets up and pads over to dig around in his freezer (“Seriously, Bell, this expired like five years ago. You are such a _guy_.”) until she finds the half-empty carton. Bellamy tosses her a spoon, and she sniffs the ice cream experimentally.

“You did not just smell it,” he says in disbelief.

Clarke shrugs. “Don't judge me, Blake.”

As it turns out, Snickers ice cream is a thing. And it's pretty awesome. Clarke refuses to admit it, but Bellamy watches with a triumphant smirk as she scoops them each a generous serving before hopping up onto a kitchen stool.

“Do you, uh, want kids?” Clarke asks quietly. She can feel herself blushing, and she keeps her eyes on her bowl of ice cream.

Bellamy pauses over the griddle, chancing a quick look at Clarke. “Yeah,” he says, his voice equally quiet. “Not now, obviously, but at some point. Do you?”

“In theory, yeah,” Clarke answers honestly. “But not with Finn.”

Bellamy nods once and rubs the back of his neck. “Understandable.”

Clarke stirs her half-forgotten ice cream. “What do you want to do when you can't work with the Secret Service anymore?”

“I don't know,” Bellamy says. “I mean, I only have a couple years until I'm too old, but I guess I've been trying to avoid thinking about it. Maybe I could go back to school and become a history teacher. I've always been into that. But I don't know.”

“You'd be a good teacher,” Clarke says.

Bellamy smiles at her over the counter-top. “You think?”

“All the girls would have crushes on you,” she teases.

Bellamy groans. “Shut up, Princess.”

Clarke sticks her tongue out at him. “So. History?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says as he flips her sandwich. “Hence, y'know, _Octavia_.”

“You came up with that?” Clarke asks in surprise.

“I thought it was cool,” Bellamy says with a shrug.

“It is cool,” Clarke agrees.

“Favorite movie?” Bellamy changes the subject.

“ _Miss Congeniality_ ,” Clarke admits, slightly embarrassed.

Bellamy laughs. “I had you pinned for more of a political thriller type of girl.”

“God, no! I get enough of that in real life. What's yours?”

“Pretty much any movie that's about a real-life person in history. _Lincoln_ was cool.”

“You're actually the biggest dork.”

Bellamy grins, unashamed, and slides the steaming hot grilled cheese sandwich across the counter top to Clarke. “Dinner is served, your highness.”

Clarke is halfway through her sandwich, which is admittedly even better than the ones made at the White House, when there is a pounding at Bellamy's front door. He meets Clarke's alarmed gaze from across the room, where he is in the midst of searching for some stupid historical documentary that is “the best thing that she will ever see in her entire life,” and quickly motions her into his bedroom.

“Bell-” she whispers.

“I'll take care of it,” he interrupts her firmly. “Go.”

Clarke does as he says, shutting his bedroom door quietly behind her. She sticks her ear against the door, not guilty in the least.

Across the apartment, Bellamy takes a deep breath before peering through the peephole. He relaxes infinitesimally when he realizes who it is, only to tense up again _when he realizes who it is._

Bellamy opens the door to reveal a frowning Octavia Blake, who pushes her way into his apartment without a greeting.

“Took you long enough, jeez,” she mutters, depositing a bag of groceries on his table.

“Hi, Octavia,” Bellamy says as he shuts the door behind her.

“I brought popcorn, chips, and grapes because I was feeling adventurous tonight,” Octavia says as she slips out of her jacket. “ _Please_ tell me that we don't have to watch another one of those stupid historical dramas again-”

“I'll be right back,” Bellamy interrupts.

Octavia rolls her eyes and throws herself down on the armchair in his living room. She grabs his remote and begins flipping through the channels, oblivious to what is going on around her.

Bellamy carefully opens the door to his bedroom just enough so that he can slip inside to where Clarke is waiting, eyes wide and panicked.

“It's Octavia,” he whispers.

“I know!” Clarke whisper-yells back. “Oh my God, what are we going to do?!”

“She's not going to leave for hours,” Bellamy mutters, “and we have to get you back home soon.”

“Can't you just get rid of her?” Clarke pleads.

“It's _Octavia_ ,” Bellamy scowls.

Clarke groans quietly, but knows that Bellamy is right; once Octavia gets settled in, she won't move for hours. Getting rid of Bellamy's little sister isn't an option.

“We have to tell her,” she says decisively.

“Are you sure?” Bellamy asks anxiously.

“She knows you're seeing someone,” Clarke rationalizes. “She'd find out eventually, right?”

Bellamy frowns, thrown off by Clarke's declaration. “She does?”

Clarke nods, automatically going into politician clean-up mode. Her posture straightens, and her expression becomes steely. “We don't have a choice, Bell,” she murmurs.

“Bell?” Octavia calls from his living room. “Did you die in there?”

Bellamy takes a deep breath, looking Clarke in the eyes carefully to make sure that she's okay with what is about to happen, and then opens the door slowly.

Octavia looks up, mouth already open to tease her brother, but freezes when she sees Clarke behind him. Her eyes dart from Bellamy to Clarke, down to their joined hands, and back up, realization dawning.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

 

*

 

“So this has been happening for... how long?” Octavia asks.

Octavia sits in the armchair, frowning at Bellamy and Clarke, who share the couch, uncomfortably not touching.

“A while,” Clarke allows.

Octavia nods shrewdly. “I see.”

The trio sits in silence. Clarke is waiting for the yelling to begin. Bellamy is convinced that Octavia is about to scar Clarke for life and end their already slightly messed up relationship. Octavia is struggling very hard to suppress the gleeful happy dance that is threatening to burst out of her, becoming harder and harder to hide with each passing minute.

“I'm going to be blunt about this,” Octavia says finally. “I'm happy as hell that you two are finally realizing how hot of a couple you would make, but this is shitty timing. Clarke, you're the First Lady. As, y'know, I'm sure you're aware. Literally every single person on the planet is invested in your love life, and _not_ the one with my brother. If you guys get caught, it's going to blow up in your faces, and I like my brother too much for him to become the next Monica Lewinsky.”

“O-” Bellamy protests.

“Shut up, Bellamy,” Octavia says coldly. Bellamy frowns at her use of his full name but quiets. “That said, neither of you have been happy for a long time. You two actually seem like real people right now. I _like_ the people you guys are when you're happy. I'm going to warn you right now, though: as much as I don't like to say this, someone is going to end up hurt in the end. Whether it's one of you or Finn, that's up to you guys. But it better fucking be Finn, am I understood? Because I love you both too much to have to choose between the two of you.”

“We love you, too, O,” Clarke whispers.

Octavia grins, finally letting out her happiness. “I can't believe you let me believe that Bellamy was back with Roma!” She throws a pillow at Clarke, who catches it with a surprised laugh.

“ _What_?”

“I told her that I thought you were acting weird because you got back together with Roma, and the little brat didn't say anything!” Octavia shouts.

“Yeah,” Clarke chimes in innocently, “who _is_ Roma, Bellamy?”

Bellamy groans and falls backwards on the couch. “I'm going to murder you, Octavia.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I just want to thank you all for the awesome support! Almost 300 subscribers and 80-some bookmarks? That is so crazy!!! 
> 
> Make sure to comment your thoughts/suggestions so that I get an idea of what I need to work on. I love hearing your opinions :))
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven's backstory. Bellarke. Linctavia.

“I don't regret it.”

Raven looks up from her laptop to frown at Finn from across the Aspen Lodge living room. “Regret what?” she asks.

Finn pops a barbecue chip into his mouth and reclines back on his armchair, hands folded behind his head. “That press conference.”

“You mean the one where you potentially declared war when you technically don't even have the power to do so? After going against the advice of the whole Security Council?” Raven asks drily.

Finn rolls his eyes. “I can't handle this shit from you, too, Raven.”

Raven shuts the lid of her laptop. “Right, of course. I forgot that you can't handle to hear the opinion of anyone who disagrees with you.”

“ _Seriously_?” Finn sits up and surveys Raven over the coffee table. “What happened to always being on my side? What happened to it being you and me against the world? What happened to _us_ , Raven?”

Raven laughs bitterly. “Grow up and stop being so dramatic, Finn. You know it hasn't been like that for a long time. It hasn't been like that since you did exactly what your parents wanted you to do and married the _better match._ The one who had the best shot of getting you the presidency.”

“This is about Clarke?”

“This is always about Clarke, Finn!” Raven snaps. “Don't you understand? Every time I see a picture of the two of you on the cover of some magazine or a quick clip of you guys on the news, I'm reminded of how you let your parents bully you into ending things with me so you could get together with that _child_!”

“I had to think about the bigger picture!”

Raven scoffs. “I need some air.”

“Raven-”

“I _said_ ,” Raven snaps, “I need some air.”

She stands abruptly and stalks out of the room, ignoring Finn's fumbled pleas for her to come back. After pulling on her red jacket and tying a plaid scarf around her neck, she steps out onto the front porch, huffing out a surprised breath when the cold winter air hits her lungs.

Raven begins walking at a punishing pace, half-blinded by the sun as it reflects off of the untouched snow on the lawn, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. Her breath appears in the air in shimmering puffs ahead of her, and bits of snow slip into her boots, burning the skin around her ankles.

The truth is, Raven kind of hates herself for being the stereotypical “Other Woman.” It's downright demoralizing. Every time she sees Clarke, the sour taste of self-loathing appears in her mouth. The only thing that can get rid of it? Finn.

Pathetic.

It's not like she got into this stupid relationship with the knowledge that he was married. She met Finn when they were undergrads at Yale, stuck with the same horrid professor for one of their seminar classes. They bonded over the seemingly never-ending lectures and torturous assignments and, before Raven really knew what was happening, she was in love with Finn Collins.

He brought her home for Christmas during their freshman year of college, since Raven had no where to go herself. Well, technically she did, but her mother would likely spend the majority of it passed-out drunk on the couch, trying to ignore whatever asshole boyfriend it was this time yelling at her, and Raven had experienced more than enough of the destructive behavior. (Looking back, she thinks that maybe it's genetic. It'd be nice, she idly decides, to be able to blame her status as the mistress on some chromosomal defect.)

Finn's family was nice enough at first. Their house was overwhelmingly big and the array of several forks and spoons on either side of the china plates at the dinner table was confusing for the first few days, but she could get past that. His mother was detached but polite, and his father seemed to like Raven fairly well. She decided that she could see herself fitting in here, once she got the hang of upper-class life. Golfing on the weekends, tea with her prissy girlfriends, having dinner prepared for Finn when he came home from work. Yeah, maybe it would be a little mind-numbing, but she could deal. Hell, she could deal with anything that didn't include a deadbeat, abusive boyfriend and a starving child when the money didn't stretch to cover both booze and food for the table.

Things went on like that for a couple years. She fell more and more in love with Finn every day, but she wasn't an idiot. She could physically _feel_ him pulling away from her.

And so she sat him down, two weeks after returning from his parents' for their third Christmas together, and asked him very subtly, as was and still is her style, what the _hell_ was going on with him.

As it turns out, Finn's parents had been pushing him to get rid of Raven ever since he had brought her home. Nearly three years ago. She wasn't from the right background to help Finn reach his full potential. After all, she worked as a mechanicin high school. A _mechanic_. (Lord help us all.)

The sad part? Finn didn't seem to totally disagree.

Raven huffs and sits down in the middle of the snow, still pissed off from what had happened nearly twenty years ago. She impulsively begins to make snowballs, ignoring the way her hands tingle from the cold as she imagines nailing Finn in the face with the globs of icy snow. He more than deserves it, after all. Karma.

And so they had gone their separate ways. Raven followed Finn's career from afar, of course, and may have burned the newspaper clippings with the news of his and Clarke's marriage, but didn't see him again until he was announcing his bid for President, winning the nomination, and calling her up to see if she would be his running mate. By that time she was happily married and didn't think that reuniting with her first love would be too devastating.

It was a terrible idea. She knows that now, wishes she could go back and undo it. But he had sounded so hopeful, so optimistic, over the phone, and she couldn't say no to him, even then.

But then her husband was killed.

The affair didn't start right away. Clarke was pretty cool, Raven had to grudgingly admit, even if she was a bit hardcore at time. It didn't take long for Raven to realize who was really pulling the ropes behind the scenes, and then to figure out exactly how loveless Clarke and Finn's marriage was. Raven herself was devastated, lost without her husband. She missed having a significant other. Nothing really made sense to her anymore. Except Finn, who she still knew like the back of her hand after almost twenty years.

And that's when the affair began.

To this day, Raven isn't sure who first instigated it. A couple of stolen, chaste kisses. Then suddenly it has been two years, and she is still doing the First Lady's husband behind closed doors.

And she feels downright shitty about it.

 

*

 

“Are we going to have sex?”

Bellamy chokes on his sandwich. Clarke munches delicately on her garden salad as she waits for his coughing fit to pass.

They sit in Clarke's office on either side of her desk, eating lunch together as they skim through their own files and make their own phone calls. DC's winter sun, all too elusive as of late, shines through the large windows behind Clarke, bathing her in a warm glow that gives her a rather angelic appearance. Bellamy can't decide if the image is fitting or ironic or maybe a little bit of both.

“Excuse me?” His eyes are watering, and he watches her warily as he takes a sip from his water bottle.

“I mean,” Clarke says thoughtfully, a hint of a twinkle in her eyes, “you made some pretty convincing promises a while back.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows and leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head as he smirks at Clarke. “Oh, really?”

Clarke stares back confidently. “If I remember right, I think you promised to take charge where it really counts...” She raises an eyebrow, lips pursed into a goading smirk. “Of course, maybe that was just all talk.”

Bellamy half-scowls, but he can't contain his cocky grin. “Just keep telling yourself that, Princess.”

“Or you could just prove it,” Clarke suggests.

Bellamy laughs. Clarke bites her bottom lip, waiting for his answer, and his laughter quickly becomes strangled as his eyes darken. He closes his eyes briefly, and when they reopen his expression is serious. “Believe me, Princess,” he begins, his voice hoarse, “the thought has crossed my mind.”

“Good,” Clarke prompts, frowning slightly at the abrupt change in Bellamy's demeanor.

“I just—I don't like being the other dude,” Bellamy admits. “I'm sick of sneaking around. It-It felt _good_ to tell Octavia about us.”

“Bell-”

“Hold on,” Bellamy says, holding up a hand to silence Clarke. “This stuff has been bugging me, and I need to get it off my chest, okay?”

Clarke nods and waits for him to continue, hands loosely folded on the desk in front of her.

“Pretty much everyone knows that your husband is a dickhead. He's obviously not my favorite person, but that doesn't mean that I don't feel guilty every time I see him. It's like—It's like I'm breaking some kind of unwritten guy code, y'know? It sounds dumb. I know.” Bellamy frowns and stares up at the ceiling, trying to formulate the words to fully explain to Clarke how he's feeling. “I don't think I can do that.”

Clarke rubs her right ear, a wry smile on her face. “I think you might be the only guy on the planet to say no to sex.”

Bellamy sends her a small, timid smile. “Trust me, it's not you.”

“It's my relationship status,” Clarke sighs. “I know.”

“It's just—I'm serious about this, Clarke. This isn't some wild fling for me. And I don't think it is for you, either, and I'm not doubting you, but the fact is that I don't have any reason to believe that it's not just something to do to ward off the mid-term boredom,” Bellamy says carefully. “You could change your mind about all of this tomorrow, and no one but me and Octavia would know that we actually existed. And you could go onto your high-profile life and pop out a couple brilliant, all-American babies, and no one would be the wiser. And me? I'd be wrecked.”

Clarke stares at him, speechless. How had she missed this? Confident, sometimes downright cocky Bellamy Blake is feeling small and uncertain about her. About them. And she had no idea.

“I'm in, Clarke,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I think you are, but I'm not sure. You've never said anything about leaving your husband. You've never made me any promises. I'm in too deep to go any further with you. I can't risk it.”

“You want security,” she finally says when she finds her voice. “Insurance.”

“Is that so wrong?”

“You think I've been stringing you along.”

“That's not what I said. Don't turn this into an argument.”

“You won't have sex with me until I've given you proof of my feelings,” Clarke summarizes.

“Don't make me out to be the bad guy here,” Bellamy sighs, running a tired hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “I care about you, and I want this to work more than anything, but sometimes I have to look out for myself.”

“This isn't a game to me, Bellamy!”

“Good. Me neither.”

Clarke pushes back from her desk suddenly and stalks over to the window to look outside with a furrowed brow. “Finn and I aren't forever,” she whispers, refusing to make eye contact. She takes an unsteady breath and then finally turns to face him, her lower lip quivering, eyes watery. “I've never admitted that out loud, but it's true. And when I can _finally_ divorce him and _finally_ put us all out of our misery, you're the one I want by my side. You!”

Bellamy stands, crosses the room and reaches her side in three steps. He reaches out tentatively, tangling their fingers together in one hand and ghosting his left hand over her blonde curls. She is the first to break the tense feelings swimming in the air around them as she abruptly tangles her right arm around Bellamy's waist underneath his suit jacket and breathes in his comforting scent.

“You're right,” Clarke says, her voice muffled by his chest. “I don't want Finn tainting us.”

Bellamy kisses her temple gently and pushes a strand of hair behind her ears. Clarke sniffles and pulls back, blinking her tears away rapidly and looking up at him, her expression raw.

“I think we just DTR'd,” she says. A faint smile dances across her mouth.

“DTR'd?”

“'Defined the relationship,'” she quotes, her voice taking on a gently teasing quality. “I saw it on some bizarre MTV show the other night.”

“That's very... MTV?” Bellamy guesses.

Clarke nods, tugging him back to their seats. This time she sits next to him, popping her feet up to rest on her own desk easily. “I'm very tuned in to popular culture,” she says seriously as she douses the remnants of her salad with ranch dressing.

Bellamy grins and points at the breadstick that came with her salad. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“Go ahead.”

They finish their lunches with easy, tear-free conversation about their qualms concerning the quality of MTV programming and whether American Idol is worthy of another season. (Clarke thinks its a classic that needs to remain on television until she has enough time to try her hand at judging, while Bellamy is convinced that it has been dying a slow death for the past several years.)

As he stands up to leave for a meeting with the various heads of Secret Service departments, their trash in his hands, Bellamy leans over to plant a gentle kiss on the top of Clarke's head. “We good?”

“Of course,” Clarke answers, sending him a reassuring smile. “Now, go! You're going to be late!”

 

*

 

Predictably, Finn's demand for Sterling Morgan to be released isn't met in the time limit he set. Conservatives are calling for war, democrats are setting up camp outside of the White House with their signs and jeering cheers, and Clarke just really wants to murder someone.

The terrorist camp is surprisingly silent. No videos or photos are released. They don't even know if Sterling Morgan is still alive, and that worries the National Security Council immensely. What if Finn's reckless declaration had pushed them to harm the soldier? What if he had been killed because of Finn's actions?

“We might need to consider making a trade,” Lincoln says quietly at one of the National Security Council's meetings.

Clarke frowns and cradles her cup of steaming black coffee in her hands, letting the sharp smell clear her thoughts. They've been stuck in the Situation Room for several hours, debating different methods of attack. The conclusion? There is no good way to proceed. No matter what they choose, someone is put at risk.

“We'll look weak,” Raven argues.

“She's right,” Clarke grudgingly agrees.

“We won't look weak if we-” Finn's voice trails off as every member of the National Security Council glowers at him. “...Right. Sorry. I'll just, ah, listen?”

“I don't know if 'weak' is the right word to describe it,” the Secretary of State speaks up. With her head of graying hair and laugh lines creasing her eyes, the woman looks far too kind and grandmotherly to be having a conversation like this. “Maybe diplomatic would be a better term.”

“Democrats would be pleased that we avoided war altogether,” Raven acknowledges wryly.

“But we would potentially trade half a dozen terrorists for one soldier,” Clarke sighs. “Would that even be worth it?”

“We could agree to trade,” Lincoln says thoughtfully, “but negotiate the numbers. Maybe they would take two or three.”

“They asked for eight originally,” the Secretary of State reminds him. “Would they even consider that?”

“If it comes down to it,” Clarke says, “we'd have to negotiate them down. Eight is ridiculous.”

Lincoln nods, making a note on the pad of paper in front of him. “Well, at least we have a tentative plan of action now.”

“Yeah,” Raven says pointedly, “a shitty one.”

 

*

 

Clarke rents out the Albert Einstein planetarium after hours because, well, she's Clarke Griffin-Collins. She does what she wants.

Rationally, Bellamy knows it's a bad idea to sneak the First Lady out of the White House. But Finn is out of town for the night, visiting Federal Penitentiaries or something, and who's going to find out? If she's going to sneak out, he figures, it might as well be with him. And it's not like the Albert Einstein Planetarium is a high-risk place.

They sit in the middle of the large auditorium, reclining on the plush blue chairs that smell faintly of the chemicals that are used to clean them and staring up at the stars in wonder. The lights are off, and when Bellamy glances over at Clarke, the galaxy is reflected in her awed eyes. His chest tightens, and he looks away quickly.

Clarke slips her soft hand into Bellamy's calloused one. “I've been coming to planetariums since probably the second grade,” she whispers, entangling their fingers together, “and they never get boring.”

“They certainly put things in perspective,” he murmurs.

“It makes you feel small,” she quietly agrees.

They sit in silence, taking in the universe above them.

“Do you take long showers?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy lets out a brief bark of a laugh. “Sorry?”

He can just make out the faint blush that graces Clarke's cheeks in the darkness. She focuses on their entwined hands, biting her bottom lip. “I'm trying to imagine what our life will be like,” she explains carefully.

The humor drains from Bellamy's face, and he watches Clarke with parted lips. “Yeah,” he answers finally, his eyes crinkling at the edges as his lips curl into a smile. “I do. You'll probably have to shower at night so that you'll have some hot water left.”

Clarke grins, and it transforms her entire face. “Good thing I already shower at night,” she teases.

“Well, there you go!” Bellamy nudges her gently. “We're meant to be.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but the smile on her face is telling.

“Are you going to cook or am I?” Bellamy asks.

“Definitely you,” Clarke answers easily, “if that grilled cheese you made me is any indication. I'll do the dishes after dinner. Right side of the bed or left?”

“Right, of course.”

Clarke nods her agreement enthusiastically. “I take left!”

“Pie or cake?”

“Pie. One hundred percent.”

“No!” Bellamy groans. “This is never going to work.”

“You are not a cake person,” Clarke scoffs in disbelief. “What the hell?”

“Who actually enjoys pie?” Bellamy shudders.

“Me!”

Bellamy snickers. “Actually, though, maybe this is a good thing. I won't eat your pie, and you won't eat my cake.”

“Everybody wins!” Clarke beams.

“Are you a city or a country girl?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke nestles her head on his shoulder, taking in a big breath of his familiar scent. “I don't know,” she answers honestly. “I think after all of this it would be nice to get away from everything and just _be_ , you know? Maybe in a nice little cottage in the mountains. Or a place on the beach.”

Bellamy murmurs his agreement.

“But,” Clarke continues with a small frown, “I don't know if I could deal with just being normal after this. I'm so used to having to make giant decisions that have huge impacts over people's lives, that I could see myself being bored to death if I had to go back to being completely ordinary.”

“You'll never be ordinary,” Bellamy assures her gently.

She smiles her thanks up at him. “Maybe I could write a book or something.”

“A tell-all memoir where you spill the dirt on everyone?” he teases.

“It would be the scandal of the century,” Clarke agrees, clearly pleased with the idea.

“What would you say about me?”

Clarke pulls her head off of Bellamy's shoulder and surveys him with pursed lips. “Extraordinarily good-looking,” she says decisively, “but surprisingly unafraid of me. Kind of a pain in the ass.”

“I'm going to take those as compliments.”

“Cocky,” Clarke adds.

Bellamy pinches her side and then leans over to press a quick kiss to her temple. “You love it.”

“I do.”

 

*

 

Octavia Blake is good at a lot of things. She can make people feel comfortable around her in an instant with one cleverly worded compliment. She can kickbox with the best of them. She can drink as much as Lincoln on any given night. She can keep the President's complicated, always-changing schedule straight in her mind.

But what she can't do is keep a secret.

That's why the week after her discovery of Bellamy and Clarke's illicit relationship is so painful for Octavia. She wants to keep it to herself. She really does. She's convinced that this will be the secret that she is finally able to keep, well, a secret. Because she really can't mess this up. This is pretty much the major leagues of secret-keeping. It's a really, really big deal.

Lincoln is not helpful. He can tell something is wrong as soon as he sees her. And if keeping a secret is hard for Octavia, keeping a secret from Lincoln is nearly impossible.

Lincoln is at the desk in his bedroom, wearing a pair of black track pants and rewatching videos of Sterling Morgan on repeat as he tries in vain to see something that he had missed before. He looks up at Octavia as she walks in and sends her a weary smile.

“How is Bellamy?” he asks.

“Oh, uh,” Octavia coughs as she kicks off her shoes and falls into Lincoln's king-sized bed, “you know. Same as always. Nothing exciting.”

“Hm,” Lincoln says, one eye squinting at Octavia infinitesimally. “Is that so?”

Octavia burrows down in the plush navy comforter, grateful for Lincoln's rather bizarre fondness for pillows that has effectively given her a barrier of various shades of blue to protect her from Lincoln's unconvinced gaze. “He made me watch another dumb historical documentary,” she tells him, not untruthfully, “about Cleopatra or something. I dozed.”

Lincoln chuckles, swiveling his desk chair around to face his high-tech mess of laptops and cords and who knows what else. Octavia stares at the ceiling and tries to stifle the sigh of relief that so desperately wants to escape her.

Maybe this keeping-secrets thing won't be as hard as she thought!

 

*

 

It's very hard. Octavia is pretty sure that Lincoln knows that she is keeping something from him. Maybe it's the way he lingers on the mornings when he has to leave for work before she does or how he scrutinizes her as they eat dinner together. Maybe it's the guilt that twists in Octavia's stomach when he wraps an arm around her waist at night when Lincoln thinks she's asleep.

“Are you okay, Octavia?”

Octavia jumps and spins to see Lincoln standing in the doorway to his pale yellow kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the sky blue tie around his neck. She blushes and turns back to the omelet she's making herself on the stove.

“Of course,” she replies breezily. She wrinkles her nose at the faint smell of burnt eggs coming from her breakfast. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You've been acting strange lately,” Lincoln replies. He pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the marble countertop as he takes a sip, carefully eying his girlfriend over the top of his favorite mug.

Octavia sighs. She flips the omelet once more and then slides it onto a plate. After turning off the stove, she turns to face Lincoln, plate in one hand while the other rests on her hip.

“Everything's _fine_ ,” she reassures him.

Lincoln frowns at her back as Octavia makes her way to the kitchen table. “Did I do something?” he asks quietly.

Octavia freezes halfway into her seat. _Shit._ “Lincoln...”

“Please don't lie to me and say that something isn't bothering you,” he says. “I know you, Octavia.”

Octavia closes her eyes briefly, mentally apologizing to Bellamy and Clarke in her mind. She really did try to keep their secret. But it's not fair to make her relationship suffer to help preserve theirs. Right?

“Clarke and Bellamy are together,” she blurts out. “Like, _together_ together.”

Her confession is met with silence, and then Lincoln steps into her line of view, his brow furrowed.

“That's what you've been keeping from me?” he asks uncertainly.

Octavia nods, bracing herself for his reaction. She isn't sure what to expect from Lincoln, but it can't be good.

Lincoln smiles and leans down to kiss Octavia on the cheek. She jumps, frowning up at him in confusion.

“Aren't you mad?” she asks.

“I already knew,” he tells her gently.

Octavia's mouth drops open. “What? How?”

“I'm perceptive,” Lincoln explains as he steals a bite of her omelet, frowning as he chews the rubbery, slightly burnt eggs. “I watch the people around me. Clarke is a very bitter, sharp person, but not so much when your brother is in the room. She isn't angered as easily. I think he's helping to lower her blood pressure.”

Octavia takes an angry bite of her breakfast. “I thought I was the only one who knew,” she mumbles petulantly. “Aren't you _mad_ at them?”

Lincoln raises his eyebrows at her. “I don't see how it's any of my business to be mad at them. They aren't hurting anyone.”

“What about Finn?” Octavia snaps.

“Finn has his own indiscretions,” Lincoln says simply. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Are you angry that I'm not angry?”

“I don't know!” Octavia exclaims. “I just had built this secret up into a huge deal and I was so worried that I'd give it away, and now you already know! I kept it for a _week_!”

Lincoln grins. “If it's any consolation, I'm very proud of you for keeping a secret for that long.”

Octavia scowls at him, but he can tell that it's taking all her strength not to laugh with him.

“For future reference,” Lincoln adds as an afterthought, “maybe don't keep secrets from _me_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory on Raven? Cute moments between Bellarke? Cute moments between Linctavia? GOD BLESS!! :')
> 
> I've abandoned my previous outline of this story and have a pretty good idea of where this is going. I haven't started writing the next chapter, but the plot is about to thicken! BIG TIME!
> 
> Thanks for the support!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK. It's been so long. I know. I feel terrible. But I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet, so woohoo! Am I forgiven?:)

In the middle of January, Clarke leaves for California, where she will be teaching three classes at Stanford University. She has a couple visits to centers for women and then another couple visits to resource centers for veterans. In total, she's scheduled to be gone for two weeks. She can't remember the last time she was this thrilled to leave DC.

As she boards the private plane, the sense of excitement that has been building in Clarke in anticipation of her getaway rises until she can't hide her grin. The plane, complete with beige leather seats and smiley flight attendants in blue uniforms, is spotless and smells faintly of some sort of cleaner. It's definitely not the first private plane Clarke has been on, but something feels different this time; she can't put her finger on it, but there's a sense of a new beginning.

Then again, Clarke has a fairly good idea of why this plane seems to hold so much promise as soon as a certain dark-haired, smirking Secret Service agent boards the plane, duffel in one hand and aviators perched atop his mess of dark curls.

“Not bad, Princess,” Bellamy says as he glances around. He wears his usual Secret Service uniform; black suit, slim black tie, earpiece. His duffel bag, navy blue and worn from what appears to be years of use, stands out in sharp contrast to his otherwise impeccable appearance.

Clarke sends him a small smile before looking behind him to see Monty and Jasper, who stare around in amazement. They wear the same uniform as Bellamy, but something about the clothes looks a bit oversized and uncomfortable on the inseparable duo.

“Hey, boys,” she says. “Make yourselves at home.”

If possible, Monty and Jasper's grins grow even bigger. They push past Bellamy, talking in low tones with their heads together. Bellamy watches them with the slightly narrowed eyes of a parent who doesn't quite trust that his children will manage to behave themselves.

“Relax,” Clarke whispers, taking a couple steps forward until she stands directly in front of Bellamy. “They're college students. They're not going to crash the plane.”

Bellamy doesn't take his eyes off of the snickering boys. “You don't know them like I know them. It's a definite possibility.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and takes a seat in one of the plush tan seats, kicking her heels off and tucking her feet under her. “Bellamy,” she says, “you're on a private plane on your way to sunny California. Have a drink. Enjoy yourself.”

Bellamy musses up her hair. “Maybe after I do my job, Princess.”

Bellamy greets the other five members of Clarke's Secret Service team as they enter, all dressed in their usual suits and earpieces. Miller is the only one that Clarke really knows, and he gives her a quick nod and a “Morning, Mrs. Griffin-Collins,” as he passes to the back of the plane, where the Secret Service usually sits.

Murphy appears right before the plane is set to take off, an army green duffel slung casually over his shoulder. His tie is loose and his dress shirt is rumpled, and Clarke can feel the indignation pulsing off of Bellamy as he takes in Murphy's appearance.

“Murphy?” Clarke asks uncertainly.

“He was transferred to your detail for the time being,” Bellamy explains, his tone cold, “at your husband's request.”

“Try to reign in your excitement,” Murphy says as he brushes past Bellamy.

Clarke looks at Bellamy, questions in her eyes, and he merely shakes his head with a sour scowl.

Bellamy sits in the seat next to Clarke during the flight under the guise of briefing her on the security measures that will be taken during her time in California. She reviews her lesson plans and tests out a few bits of them on Bellamy, who truthfully tells her that she'll be excellent. Clarke isn't convinced, but she appreciates the sentiment anyways.

The flight goes seamlessly, much to Bellamy's relief. The flight attendants are polite but appropriately distant, and Monty and Jasper manage not to create too much of a disturbance. There isn't a hint of turbulence.

They arrive in San Francisco a little after noon to sunshine and land that is completely clear of snow. The air is in the mid-fifties with a chill in the wind that tugs on Clarke's hair and burns her cheeks, but it's still much better than the snow that seems to permanently cover the grounds of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Clarke and her Secret Service team stay in the best hotel that Palo Alto has to offer, just minutes from Stanford's famously beautiful campus. The entire hotel has been closed off for her visit, and she arrives to several dozen local law enforcement personnel awaiting Bellamy's instruction, having already canvassed the hotel several times over. Clarke sends Bellamy a dirty look at excessive security measures, but he simply tightens his jaw in an unapologetic response, not bothered by her frustration.

“You don't know how much work has gone into making this trip a success for you,” he tells her when she confronts him about it later.

Clarke scowls and pouts a little, but the simple fact that she is out of the White House and hundreds of miles away from Finn is enough to get her to loosen up and forget about her reservations considering the whole security issue. Her three-bedroom villa is spacious and airy, with large windows that offer a beautiful view of Silicon Valley. With cream-colored walls and golden accents, the room manages to be elegant and homey at the same time. Outside the villa is a stone patio, complete with plush yellow-gold chairs, a crackling fireplace, and an impressive array of greenery for this time of year.

“There will be agents stationed around the resort at all times,” Bellamy tells Clarke as she takes in the accommodations before her. “I'm staying in the nearest suite, and you know how to reach me if you need anything, of course.”

Clarke turns from her spot near the window and frowns at Bellamy. “You aren't staying here?”

Bellamy's mouth opens and closes wordlessly several times. At this point, it's rare if Clarke can catch him off guard. But he certainly was not expecting those words to come out of her mouth.

“I, ah, don't think that would be appropriate,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It has two bedrooms,” she protests. “And I really would feel safer if you were nearby.”

Clarke's pleading blue eyes meet Bellamy's nervous ones, and in that instant he knows that he's a goner. He just can't say no to her.

And that is how Bellamy and Clarke end up staying in the same villa together.

 

*

 

When Bellamy wakes up in the morning, it's to a face full of blonde hair and bright sunlight streaming through the pale gold curtains. _What the hell..._

He rolls away from Clarke and stares up at the ceiling, wracking his memory to try to remember exactly how he got into this position. Next to him, Clarke lets out a soft breath and rolls onto her other side so that she is facing him, kicking the sheets off of herself. A pair of lacy, dark blue sleep shorts hugs her ass, and her loose gray tank top is twisted around her waist, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Bellamy looks away quickly, trying to ignore how _right_ it feels to wake up next to Clarke in the morning.

As far as Bellamy can remember, he and Clarke went their separate ways when it came time to go to bed. She gave him a completely innocent peck on the cheek and pointed him in the direction of his room, and he laid in bed for much longer than he will willingly admit, trying not to think about Clarke, asleep on the other side of his bedroom wall. So why is Clarke curled up next to him in his bed, her face far more peaceful than he has ever seen it?

Clarke lets out a groan that Bellamy tries valiantly to ignore. She blinks sleepily and stretches her arms above her head.

“'Morning,” she breathes.

“Uh, hi?”

She smiles at him drowsily. “How did you sleep?”

“Good,” Bellamy says. “What, ah, what are you doing in here?”

Clarke looks around and rubs her eyes. “I couldn't sleep,” she admits. “I'm not used to sleeping by myself.”

Bellamy groans, rolling onto his back. “Imagine if one of the guys had come in here looking for me, Clarke.”

“You're off-duty,” Clarke says pointedly, her voice still soft and hoarse from sleep.

“I'm never off-duty,” Bellamy argues. He runs a hand over his forehead, stopping to rub at his still-sleepy eyes. “I'm the head of your security detail. They're practically helpless without me.”

“That's reassuring,” Clarke says dryly.

Bellamy sends her an unimpressed look. “You know what I mean.”

Clarke smiles and scoots until she's curled against Bellamy's side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You need to relax.”

“Coming from you,” Bellamy snorts. “You're the queen of high-strung.”

Clarke reaches up to put her hand over his mouth. “This was a lot nicer last night when you were dead to the world. Your snoring is a lot more pleasant than your actual voice, believe it or not.”

“I do not snore!” Bellamy scoffs, his words muffled by Clarke's hand.

“You do,” Clarke disagrees cheerfully. “It's endearing.”

Bellamy licks her hand, and Clarke pulls away with a shriek, rubbing her hand frantically on the bedsheets.

“You are nasty,” she laughs.

Bellamy grins and reaches over to tickle her waist, to which her shrieks of laughter only intensify as she begs him to stop. “You loooove my tongue,” he teases over her squeals.

“You are coooocky,” Clarke mimics as she tries to bat his hands away. She rolls off the bed and lands on her butt on the floor with a loud thud.

Bellamy pokes his head over the edge of the bed, trying to decide if he's more concerned or amused. “Graceful.”

“Shut up.” Clarke sticks her tongue out at him and stands, wobbling slightly. “Get out of bed, lazybones, we have a big day ahead of us.”

Bellamy throws a pillow at her as she pads out of his bedroom on her bare feet and then flops back down on his back. _Down, boy..._

 

*

 

A few hours later, the carefree Clarke from his bed this morning is nowhere to be found. Dressed in a slim navy pencil skirt, a pale blue button down, and a pair of sky-high nude stilettos, her blonde hair straightened and falling loosely over her shoulders, Clarke looks far less like the stereotypical dull, washed-up college professor and more like something straight from a teenage-Bellamy's dirty librarian fantasies. _Fuck._

Clarke chews on the tip of her pen and reviews her lesson plans as the motorcade takes her and her security team from their hotel to Stanford. From his spot in the passenger seat, Bellamy watches the obviously ritzy neighborhoods sail past them. With red roofs and and overabundance of vegetation hiding the majority of the houses from the view of casual passersby, Palo Alto is everything he expected California to be.

Clarke shoves her notes into her briefcase when the SUV pulls to a stop in front of the building where she will be lecturing. Students line the sidewalk outside, cell phones at the ready as they crane their heads to get a glimpse of the First Lady around the dozens of police officers holding them back.

“Well,” Clarke huffs in surprise. She frowns as she surveys the chaotic scene around her. “I wasn't expecting _this_.”

“The students taking your class are already inside,” Bellamy assures her. He turns around to face her. “It's just a ten-foot walk from the car to the lecture hall.”

Clarke nods once. “I suppose I should stop for pictures? Wave a little bit? I don't see any babies for me to kiss... Darn.”

Bellamy smiles at her, indulging her nervous attempt at a joke. “I'm sure that would be appreciated.”

Clarke glances at the shiny new watch on her left wrist and winces. “Fuck. We're already late.”

“You aren't supposed to start for fifteen minutes,” Miller pipes up from the driver's seat.

“ _If you're not early, you're late_ ,” Clarke recites rather bitterly. Seeing Bellamy's raised eyebrows, she amends, “Growing up with my mother was a real joy.”

“Ah,” Bellamy says. “Just smile a bit, wave, and then walk in. You'll be five minutes early.”

“Yes, well,” Clarke sighs, “thank you, Miller, for driving. I suppose you'll be somewhere in the building?”

“Right outside the door to your room,” Miller answers with a smile.

“And I'll be inside, along with two of the other members of your detail and two police officers,” Bellamy reminds her. “Murphy is in charge of the security outside of the classroom.”

Clarke glances outside again. “Excellent. Let's do this, then.”

 

*

 

Bellamy sits at the back of the lecture hall, attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The students sit like perfect statues in front of him. (That may or may not be the result of him unsubtly scaring the living shit out of them when he first arrived in the room, sans Clarke, but the First Lady is never to find out about that one.)

At promptly 1:59, the door to the classroom opens and Clarke walks in, flanked by the other two members of the Secret Service that will be sitting in on the lecture. All two hundred students seem to sit up straighter at the sight of the First Lady. Bellamy catches more than a couple of the horny college boys exchange impressed glances. His fingers, gripped around the edge of the desk he sits in, tighten until his knuckles are white.

Clarke's heels clip the floor loudly, echoing in the large room. She sets her things down on the desk and turns to survey the students in front of her with arms folded across her chest, a small smile playing across her lips.

“Good afternoon,” she begins brusquely. Her voice is steady, betraying none of the nerves that she confessed to Bellamy earlier. “My name is Clarke Griffin-Collins. Welcome to class.”

She doesn't speak a word of her status as the First Lady. She says nothing of the hoards of fans standing outside of the building, and she gives no hint that teaching college classes isn't something that she does on a regular basis. It's as though teaching these students is an everyday activity of hers; she's a natural.

Bellamy watches with undisguised awe as the students are immediately enraptured by Clarke's words. She possesses the stage of the lecture hall with an easy, humble confidence as she paces back and forth, occasionally turning to point out something on the Powerpoint that she otherwise never has to reference to remember where she wants to take the two-hour lecture. The words roll off of her tongue easily, as though she has spoken them dozens of times before, and Bellamy finds himself surprised that she still didn't have her teachings fully planned out as of last night.

The students watch her with stars in their eyes, pencils sliding frantically over their notebooks and fingers tapping constantly at their laptops as they take note of her every word. Even the police officers, who Bellamy had originally written off as useless in the case of an emergency, are perfectly alert and engaged.

Clarke ends the last fifteen minutes with a time for questions. She had confided in Bellamy that she hoped that the questions would focus on her teachings rather than her prominence in the political world, and Bellamy finds himself rather nervous as the students' hands shoot up in the air.

Clarke easily answers questions on why she chose to teach a class on a subject unrelated to politics, how she became so knowledgeable on the subject, and what life in the White House is really like. Bellamy watches as she hides her annoyance at questions considering Finn's potential run for reelection and the recent Sterling Morgan scandal. She graciously thanks a girl who compliments Clarke's outfit and teases a boy back when he tries to flirt with her. (Bellamy briefly contemplates the satisfaction that banging the boy's head against his desk would bring but then reluctantly abandons the idea at the thought of Clarke's likely unimpressed reaction.)

Once the lecture period is over, the room of several hundred students stands and applauds Clarke, whose cheeks turn a faint shade of pink as she thanks them. Bellamy is at her side in an instant to escort her out of the room, glowering at the students who dare to begin to stand to exit. They quickly sit when they remember his barked orders at the beginning of class.

Bellamy and Murphy whisk Clarke out of the lecture hall, through the dozens of supporters, and into the SUV. Once she is safely inside, with Bellamy yet again in the passenger side and Miller driving, Clarke lets out a deep sigh and leans back in her seat.

Bellamy turns around and grins at her. “You were great.”

“You think?” she asks, pleased.

“They loved you,” he promises, letting the _I did too_ hang in the car unsaid. 

Clarke smiles at him, obviously understanding the second meaning behind his words. “It went well,” she acknowledges quietly. _Thank you._

 

*

 

That night, Clarke hosts a small group of her friends from Yale at the hotel. Bellamy watches from his post as they enter, full of laughter as they embrace and kiss each other on the cheeks. He thinks he recognizes the black guy (a Jaha maybe?), but he can't recall Clarke ever talking about any of them before. Yet she lets out a loud squeal whenever she opens the door to her suite to reveal someone new, and it's like he's seeing a whole new side of Clarke. Moments like these are when he realizes exactly how little he really does know about Clarke. It's unsettling. 

When he is relieved of his post, Bellamy wanders the resort grounds for a bit until he hears raucous laughter coming from Miller's open door. Bellamy knocks on the doorframe and takes in the scene before him. Murphy is standing at the bar in Miller's room, clutching a half-empty, amber-colored drink in his hand and hooting loudly at something one of the off-duty police officers has just told him. Miller sits at a bar stool, nursing his own beer quietly and half-smiling at the punchline of the officer's joke. The two police officers, both of whom are probably around Bellamy's age with the cocky air of the privileged, look up and grin at Bellamy, their cheeks red from the undoubtedly copious amounts of alcohol in their systems.

A little peeved with Clarke and her seemingly new-found youth, Bellamy allows them to pull him deeper into the room and toss him a beer. It tastes bitter when he downs it and doesn't make him feel any better than he did when he was wandering on his own, but he takes another swig.

 

*

 

A few beers later, Bellamy has come to a conclusion: he hates John Murphy.

Murphy stands for everything Bellamy has always hated. A Connecticut native, he grew up spending his summers at Caribbean vacation homes and his winters skiing in the Alps. The only child of an affluent, still-married couple, he perfectly fits the stereotype of a spoiled only child.

And it definitely doesn't help how Murphy is constantly staring at Clarke's ass.

“...I gotta say,” Murphy slurs, raising yet another beer to his lips and taking a long drink, “I never anticipated the... _perks_ that working at the White House would have. Mmm, Mrs. Collins...”

Bellamy white-knuckles his own beer, his jaw clenched tightly. The two police officers, not quite as inebriated as Murphy but definitely on their way there, snicker their agreement. Miller remains silent, his ever-watchful dark eyes taking in the quickly unraveling scene before him.

Murphy is, for whatever reason, an observant drunk. His eyes zero in on Bellamy's clenched hands and a predatory grin slips across his face. “Got somethin' you wanna say, Blake?”

Bellamy forces himself to take a casual sip of his drink, thanking the heavens for his impeccable poker face. “I think you should watch what comes out of your mouth, Murphy,” he manages to choke out.

Murphy hoots. His beer goes crashing to the floor, earning him a dirty look from Miller, but Murphy is oblivious. “Why's that?”

“You should be careful about insulting the Commander-in-Chief's wife,” Bellamy snaps.

“Trust me, that was far from an insult.” Murphy's grin widens wolfishly. “Tell me, Blake, is it considered treason to fuck the President's wife?”

Bellamy has always had an impressive amount of self-control. Hell, he turned down _Clarke Griffin_ for sex. If that's not self-control, he doesn't know what is.

But something in him snaps when Murphy says that, and suddenly Bellamy finds himself pinning Murphy to the ground, his fists slamming the smirk off of Murphy's face. He sees red. Blood splatters from Murphy's nose onto Bellamy's fists, onto the smooth wooden floor.

Miller hauls Bellamy off of Murphy and manhandles him across the room, slamming him into the wall.

“I'm going to murder him,” Bellamy snarls.

“No,” Miller says firmly. “Bellamy! Knock it off, man, you've got to get your shit together.”

Bellamy looks over Miller's shoulder to see the police officers, sobered up by the fistfight, helping a bloody Murphy off of the floor. The officers look at Bellamy warily, and one passes Murphy a damp paper towel for the blood that drips from his chin onto his t-shirt. Murphy glares at Bellamy as he does so, wincing every time he nudges his nose.

“Don't fuck with me, Murphy,” Bellamy orders as he allows Miller to push him toward the door. “Don't start something you can't finish.”

“That's right!” Murphy crows. “Run back to your little girlfriend! She'll stroke your ego! And maybe something else while she's at it...”

Miller physically throws Bellamy out of his room and blocks the door when Bellamy attempts to barrel his way back in. “I'll handle it,” Miller says firmly. “But shit, man, at least _try_ to be subtle about your thing with Clarke. For the love of _God_.”

Bellamy gapes at Miller, not moving until his friend slams the door in his face. Then he looks around the deserted resort, slightly dazed from what just went down, and ambles back to Clarke's suite. If her friends are still there, he's going back to his own room, he tells himself.

He looks at the blood on his hands in a detached way, flexing his fingers and watching as the dark red smears. A voice in the back of his head tells him to wash himself up before Clarke sees him like this, but the other, weaker part of his brain doesn't care. He just needs to see her.

When Clarke opens her door wearing a different pair of itty-bitty sleep shorts and a light pink tank top, silhouetted in the light streaming out onto the dark patio, her eyes immediately zero in on the blood on his hands. “Oh my God, Bellamy,” she gasps, her blues eyes flitting up to meet his darker ones. “What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Bellamy says stiffly.

She frowns up at him but doesn't push, instead opening the door wider and allowing him to slip inside. The remnants of a party are left in her kitchen: wine bottles, some stray chips left on the paper plates, a few old pictures from her college years. Someone forgot a jacket that now hangs over the back of one of the couches.

Clarke pushes aside the mess and holds Bellamy's hands under the warm water from the tap, lips puckered in concentration. “Who did you beat up?” she asks softly as she carefully pats his hands dry. The majority of the blood was Murphy's, but Bellamy managed to get a couple nasty scrapes on his knuckles.

“Murphy,” Bellamy grudgingly admits.

“Ah,” Clarke murmurs in understanding. She rummages around in her purse before pulling out three band aids proudly and patching Bellamy up. “Any particular reason why?”

Bellamy sizes her up, trying to decide exactly how much he should tell her. “He got drunk and said some things that I didn't like,” he finally settles on.

“I see,” Clarke says as she throws away the band aid wrappers. “What, exactly, did he say about me?”

Bellamy stares at her in surprise, his slightly inebriated brain slowly retracing everything he had told her upon arriving at Clarke's doorstep. “He, uh, he didn't.”

Clarke lets out a small laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Thank you for trying to spare my feelings, I guess,” she says with a small smile, “but I'm not dumb, Bell. And neither are you, which is why getting into fights with your coworkers isn't a common occurrence with you.”

“That doesn't mean that it was about you!” Bellamy insists.

“Okay, then tell me what it was about,” she challenges.

Bellamy sighs and cradles his pounding head in his hands. “He asked me if it was considered treason to have, um, sexual relations with you,” he admits, his voice muffled by his hands.

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy looks up in surprise. “That's what he said?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Does he legitimately know that something's going on or was he just trying to be funny?” Clarke asks.

“I don't know,” Bellamy groans, “but Miller definitely knows.”

“Miller won't be a problem,” Clarke says with a shrug. She tentatively reaches out to rub Bellamy's back. “If it's any consolation, you don't have to worry that I'll fire you.”

Bellamy offers her a tired smile at her attempt at lightening the mood. “Do you want me to stay with you again tonight?” he asks.

“Please,” she says quietly.

Tonight, Clarke doesn't even bother trying to keep up the pretense of sleeping in separate rooms. She pulls him to the master bedroom by the hand silently and pushes him onto the bed, curling up against his side.

Every doubt about his relationship with Clarke, every insecurity that had lead him to seek out a drink, disappears as she presses a gentle kiss to his jawline and settles back into him, drifting into sleep almost immediately. It just feels right.

 

*

 

By mutual agreement, that is the last night they spend together. It's just too risky, Bellamy reasons, and Clarke is forced to agree. Miller and Murphy are already suspicious; they can only speculate who else is becoming so as well.

They fall into an easy routine in California. Clarke's Chief-of-Staff briefs her on the day's events as she eats her breakfast. She makes a heavily-planned appearance or two, and then spends the rest of her time doing touristy things (after Bellamy and his team have done extensive canvassing of the area and taken more safety precautions than she thinks are strictly necessary) or just relaxing at the hotel, planning her lessons for the Stanford students. She nearly always manages to come up with a reason for why Bellamy is needed in her hotel room for a while before she goes to bed. It's nice. It feels normal.

But Clarke is chafing under the constant supervision. It's a feeling that has been building in her for a while, but something about the hotel makes it seem worse. It's not Bellamy, per se, but it's the constant Secret Service presence. She doesn't have her office or the White House's private apartment to escape to in California. They're around her constantly, always hovering just at the edge of her vision.

And so Clarke does what anyone would do. She tells Bellamy and her assistant that she is suffering from an especially brutal migraine and retires to her suite, locking the door safely behind her. Then she slips into a pair of yoga pants and a slim-fitting teal athletic sweatshirt, pulls her long blonde ponytail through a low-sitting baseball cap that she is counting on to hide her identity, and climbs out through her window.

If she's being honest, it's a little worrisome how easy it is for her to climb the stone wall that hides the hotel from the ritzy neighborhood surrounding it and escape unnoticed. She spots a couple cops, but ducks her head and fiddles with her earbuds until she is a safe distance away.

And then she runs.

It's been a while since she has really had the time to go for a long run, and the familiar sound of her favorite tennis shoes hitting the pavement is cathartic in itself. She turns to her favorite exercise playlist, one that has far more explicit songs than the American public would probably approve of, and loses herself in the music and her own heartbeat, feeling freer with every step she takes.

Clarke has never ventured outside of the hotel limits, but, well, she's Clarke. As soon as the hotel was reserved, she found it on Google maps and familiarized herself with the neighborhood and surrounding suburban area. It's a safe, upper-class neighborhood, with towering houses that are almost completely hidden by Northern California's abundant native vegetation and an almost eerily quiet feel. And she may or may not have had a background check done on every family in the neighborhood. (She knows she's being a bit hypocritical for teasing Bellamy for his overprotective tendencies, but still. She's a planner. What can she say?)

Clarke's forehead is damp far sooner than she would care to admit, and her breathing has become labored. By the time her legs are beginning to feel like jello and her throat is begging for water, she decides that she feels better than she has in a long time.

And that's when she's grabbed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
> Thoughts?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days? Who’s your favorite fanfic author?!  
> But you guys. YOU GUYS. The response to the last chapter! I’m speechless! So glad that you guys are half as invested in this story as I am. I mapped out where this is going, and I have a feeling that you are going to DIE. So stay tuned ;)

It takes him an hour to realize that Clarke is missing. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred motherfucking seconds.

The panic that engulfs him as soon as he realizes that she is missing is all-consuming. He hasn’t had a panic attack in years. He had a handle on them. They were gone. Just like Clarke is.

Fuck.

Bellamy immediately goes into the crisis mode that helped him rise in the army’s ranks so quickly. Everything around him is a blur, but he barks out orders, his brain functioning on autopilot as he forces himself to shut down the panic attack.

She’s gone. Disappeared from her hotel room.

And it’s all his fault.

He roars for Monty and Jasper, and the interns scurry into the Secret Service headquarters of the hotel, set up in arguably the worst room at the upscale resort. A panel of several televisions displays footage from the security cameras. On the other end of the room, the wall is lined with weapons. Bellamy paces, snarling orders to every agent and police officer that he sets eyes on. The Secret Service agents are barely maintaining their cool, and the cops are downright panicked. It’s chaos.

“Monty,” Bellamy barks, “I need you to hack into every fucking security system in this goddamn neighborhood, am I understood? Get the footage. I want to know every single fucking car that has come in this neighborhood in the past year. Can you do that?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” Monty stammers.

The boys disappear as quickly as they came, minds already turning as they murmur strategies to each other.

“Where the hell is Murphy?” Bellamy growls, resuming his pacing.

“Securing the hotel,” Miller reminds him calmly. “You need to make the call.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy spits, pulling at his hair.

“Can you do that?” Miller asks, quiet but firm. “If you’re too personally invested, I can take things from here. Just tell me what you need.”

Bellamy turns to face his friend, composed mask slipped back onto his face. “I’m fine. Get me the Pentagon on the phone.”

Miller does as Bellamy says with one nod of his head. He’s mid-dial when Bellamy rests a heavy hand on Miller’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Bellamy murmurs, his whispered voice breaking.

“We’re going to get her back,” Miller says simply. He turns back to the phone, speaking into the receiver in codes that only Secret Service agents would know. In a matter of seconds, he is holding the phone out to Bellamy, the highest authority awaiting the First Lady’s Head of Security on the other line.

Bellamy takes a deep, shaky breath before taking the phone. “Agent Bellamy Blake. We have a situation.”

  


*

  


Her hands are tied behind her back, the bindings digging into her wrists as she attempts to get free. A bag of some sort covers her head, and the heat is slowly suffocating her. Her head throbs where she hit it when she was thrown into the car, and each bump that the car goes over increases the pulsing in her head tenfold. She lets out another scream, begging for help.

“Shut her up,” a cold voice says.

A heavy fist to the stomach knocks the wind out of Clarke, and her scream cuts off abruptly as she gasps for air. Her sweaty legs stick to the hot leather seat underneath her.

“Please,” she breathes, her voice quivering. “Please, what do you want? I-I’ll do anything.”

A sharp slice of shame cuts through her at her pleads, and she bitterly forces herself to stop. If she is about to meet her end, she isn’t going to do it a sobbing, begging mess.

“You are a feisty thing, aren’t you?” the same detached, obviously male voice says, a hint of humor lacing his words. Based on his voice alone, Clarke guesses that he is a bit older than her, maybe Finn’s age. She detects some sort of an accent, but only from years of experience working with diplomats from all over the world. It sounds vaguely… Middle Eastern? And then everything falls into place in her mind. It was really happening. They’d come for her. No more bluffing. The National Security Council hadn’t been baited by Sterling Morgan’s capture, and now his abductors were coming for her.

“You could have just made an appointment with my secretary and saved yourselves the trouble of a kidnapping,” she says stiffly.

A chuckle comes from the front seat. “I do like you, Madam First Lady. Such a shame…”

“This isn’t going to work,” she says, forcing her voice to remain steady. It’s a herculean effort, but somehow she manages to sound as though her entire world hasn’t just crumbled around her. “The United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“How many times have you recited that in your lifetime?” the man next to her sneers.

The car goes over an especially large bump, and Clarke winces as the throbbing in her head increases.

“Apparently not enough if it still hasn’t sunk into your thick skulls,” Clarke snaps haughtily.

She immediately regrets her words when they are met with a vicious blow to the jaw that sends her sprawling across the wide car. Unable to catch herself, her temple slams against the door handle. Clarke’s vision, completely blackened by the thick hood over her head, swims nonetheless as she slips down in front of the seat so that she sits on the floor of the car. Her whole body aches.

“I would suggest that you tread carefully,” the silky voice says.

“W-What do you want?” Clarke asks, wincing as her jaw twinges with each word from the force of the blow. “What are you going to do to me?”

A burst of laughter comes from the front seat. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to abandon all of the action films, my dear. The villains only tell the prisoners the plan in the movies. It was a nice effort, however.”

“Fuck you.”

The chuckling abruptly cuts off. “I think that’s enough chatting with our royal highness.”

A hand covers her mouth, and Clarke breathes in a whiff of a vaguely sharp smell before she loses consciousness.

  


*

  


Octavia Blake has received too many horrible phone calls in her lifetime. There was the one concerning her mother’s death, of course, and then the one when Bellamy was thought to have been taken captive during his stint in the army. He was found the next day, injured and disoriented, but Octavia has never quite shaken the feeling that she almost lost the most important person in her life.

That’s why, when she is woken up in the middle of the night by a call from California, Octavia’s heart automatically leaps into her throat, as though it was just waiting for something like this to happen. Lincoln stirs in the bed next to her, blinking up at her in confusion as she stares at the ringing phone in her hands.

“Octavia?” Lincoln murmurs, his voice deep and scratchy from sleep.

“It’s from California,” she tells him, dazed.

“Answer it,” he suggests, his head falling back onto his pillow.

“H-Hello?” she says, unconsciously holding her breath.

Whatever she was expecting, the last thing was to hear her brother’s voice on the phone, broken by sobs. “O-Octavia,” he gasps.

“Bellamy?” Octavia asks, palm to her throat. Her stomach sinks.

“S-She’s gone,” he manages. He chokes, and his words sink into a violent coughing fit that ends with faint retching noises reaching Octavia’s ear.

“Bellamy!” Octavia orders into the phone, finally finding her own voice as she realizes what is happening. “Bellamy, I need you to take a few deep breathes. Relax for me, big brother, okay? Just listen to my voice. In… Two, three, four. Out… Two, three, four. In… two, three, four. Out… two, three, four.”

“I’m here,” Bellamy whispers.

Octavia lets out a relieved sigh, her free hand finding Lincoln’s on top of the bed. “What’s going on, Bellamy? Talk to me. Take it slow. I’m here.”

“She’s gone, Octavia,” Bellamy says again, his voice faint. He doesn’t sound like himself at all, Octavia notices. She starts to panic but remains quiet, waiting her brother out. “She just disappeared. We’re pretty sure that she left on her own, though. Some of her clothes are missing. A pair of tennis shoes. Her window was left open a crack. We’re still reviewing the security footage.”

“Clarke’s missing,” Octavia echoes in disbelief. Next to her, Lincoln sits up, suddenly alert.

“I-I don’t know what to do,” Bellamy confides shakily. “I’m putting on a good front, but-but it’s all my fault. I should have been there. I should have known that something like this was going to happen. It’s all my fault.”

“Let me talk to him,” Lincoln whispers to Octavia.

She nods and turns her attention back to the phone. “Hey, Bell, listen to me,” she says gently. “I know this is hard. But you’re going to find her. There’s a reason why you’re a cocky asshole. You’re the best, understand? So you’re going to get back in there and forget about your personal feelings and do what you would do if this was any other politician.”

“I love you, O,” Bellamy chokes out.

“Me, too,” she whispers, eyes squeezed shut tightly. “Lincoln wants to talk to you.”

Octavia hands her boyfriend the phone and pads into the bathroom, blinking rapidly as the sudden bright light makes her eyes water. She stares at her unnaturally pale reflection in the mirror, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the tremble of her lower lip. As she listens to the soft rumble of Lincoln’s voice in the next room as he talks to her brother, it hits her. Her best friend has seemingly been kidnapped by one of today’s most feared terrorist organizations in the world. She might already be dead.

Octavia lets out a sob and crumples to the floor, letting the despair take over.

  


*

  


Lincoln helps Octavia back to bed, tucking her in like a child and smoothing her hair over her ear. “I have to go to the Situation Room,” he tells her. “I’ve called my mother, and if you need anything you’re supposed to call her immediately, okay? But remember, this situation is classified. Not a word to anyone, alright?”

“Bring her home, Lincoln,” Octavia whimpers, clutching at his hands tightly.

“I’ll do my best.”

Lincoln pulls on the first clothes he lays eyes on in his closet and breaks dozens of traffic laws as he makes his way to the White House in record time. The streets are still dark and strangely quiet, as though the world is unknowingly already mourning the loss of its most fearless leader. He shows his pass to the sleepy security guard, who looks at him suspiciously and checks his watch.

“Something exciting going on?” the chubby guy asks as he takes his time allowing Lincoln into the White House.

Lincoln squints his eyes at him, unimpressed, and the security guard’s already ruddy cheeks flush even further.

“Uh, have a good, um, morning,” the security guard mutters.

Lincoln’s tires screech as he drives off.

Inside the White House, Lincoln receives his fair share of concerned looks. It’s unusual for him to be here at this time of night unless something is seriously wrong. Which is basically the understatement of the century concerning the day’s previous events. Everyone seems to be in the dark about Clarke’s disappearance, Lincoln notes with satisfaction. Good. That makes his job somewhat easier for the time being.

When he reaches the Situation Room, however, he arrives to complete and utter chaos.

Finn is bellowing something unintelligible at the Secretary of State. Raven bawls into a Kleenex, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and soccer pants, weeping to no one in particular about guilt and mistakes and her tendency towards being a shitty person. Bellamy is already on the White House’s completely secure version of Skype, eyes red around the edges as he surveys the scene in front of him, one hand in his wayward hair.

Lincoln sets his briefcase down on the table loudly, and the room falls into silence abruptly. “Well. Today’s the day when we earn our paychecks.”

  


*

  


“I can’t do this anymore.”

Finn freezes, takes a shaky breath, and turns to face Raven, eyes darting around the dimly lit hallway. It’s completely deserted apart from the two of them, though, since every other member of the National Security Council had dashed off as soon as their meeting wrapped up, and his bloodshot brown eyes settle on her after a moment’s hesitation. “What are you talking about?” he asks grudgingly.

“Your wife is missing,” Raven informs him needlessly. “I’m done.”

“W-What?” Finn stammers, his eyes widening as he takes a panicked step towards her.

Raven pulls away, wiping a stray tear off of her cheek. “I’ve felt like a complete asshole for the entire time we’ve been doing this, Finn,” she says, looking down at the plush Oriental carpet as she summons the courage to tell him what has been building inside of her for far too long. “I can’t do it anymore. Clarke is missing. She’s most likely being held captive by the worst terrorist organization we’ve seen in decades. Probably ever, if we’re being honest.”

“No!” Finn chokes out, his hands coming up to grasp her shoulders. “Raven, I-I can’t lose you, too! You can’t leave me now! You can’t!”

“I can,” Raven says firmly. She detaches herself gently but resolutely from his hold. “I’m still going to be here for you, Finn. Just not like that.”

“Raven-” Finn pleads.

Raven takes a few steps back. “Do the right thing, Finn,” she urges him. “Beg for your wife’s safe return. Be strong for her. Make Clarke proud. Be the leader she would be.”

And then she turns and walks away without looking back, feeling lighter than she has in years.

  


*

  


Clarke wakes up disoriented. Her entire body hurts. Her mouth is dry, and her throat is tight with thirst. She blinks a few times, taking in the dim, windowless room around her. She lies on her stomach on a lumpy bed with her wrists freed but still chafing from being cuffed so tightly before. A thin comforter, faded blue and mildewy, covers the bed.

Clarke clambers to her feet, nearly collapsing when her knees almost give out. “Hello?” she calls weakly, wincing at the burn in her throat.

The walls around her are cement. The only light in the room comes from a single bare bulb that hangs in the center of the ceiling, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. Clarke shivers at the cool dampness of her cell and makes her way to the door. It’s metal, practically industrial strength. Her stomach sinks as her faint hopes of escape evaporate.

“Can anyone hear me?” she yells desperately, pounding on the metal door as hard as she can. Her strikes echo around the room and into what she assumes is a hallway of some sort on the other side of the door.

When no answer comes, Clarke is forced to step back, fist pulsing from the beating and chest heaving. Her stomach growls noisily in the quiet room. She throws herself back down on the bed and wraps the thin comforter around herself, sitting with the cold cement wall on her back. If they aren’t going to come at her call, she’ll just have to wait.

  


*

  


Bellamy doesn’t sleep that night. He stays on the call with the National Security Council for an hour, outlining their plan of action and ordering his team around from his spot in their makeshift headquarters. By the time the sun rises, his head is pounding. His eyes are scratchy and heavy, but he powers through. He can’t sleep. He won’t.

Monty comes to him then, the skin under his eyes puffy with exhaustion. “I found her,” is all he says.

There is distinct footage of Clarke shimmying through her bedroom window, wearing the missing yoga pants, teal sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Bellamy, Monty, and Jasper watch as she glances around cautiously before easily scaling the wall surrounding the hotel. Bellamy swears, simultaneously relieved and extraordinarily pissed off.

“Don’t get too excited,” Monty warns him quietly.

The young intern pulls up a new video, this one grainier and obviously from a house’s security cameras. It shows a smooth circular driveway, hidden from the road by a wrought iron gate.

“There,” Monty says. He pauses the video and rewinds it, pointing to the screen to show Bellamy what to look for.

There is Clarke, jogging past the house with her earbuds in, her trademark blonde ponytail swinging back and forth underneath her black baseball cap. It’s just a flash, only a second long, but it’s definitely Clarke.

Monty switches the camera to yet another hacked set of footage from a security camera. This one shows the street a bit better, and Bellamy watches in horror as Clarke jogs down it, completely innocent and in her own world. An unmarked black sedan creeps up behind her. Clarke is completely oblivious until two men, hidden underneath black ski masks and baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants, jump out and grab her around the waist, shoving a black hood over her head and carrying her easily into the backseat of the car. She fights, Bellamy notices proudly, elbows and knees flying, but she’s no match for the men.

The sedan takes off smoothly. There are no witnesses.

Miller rests a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder from behind. “We found this,” he says solemnly.

Bellamy turns, jaw clenching tightly when he sees the black baseball cap that Miller holds in one hand. He takes it gingerly, brushes off the dirt that has gathered on the brim.

“Monty,” he says, “I want you to hack into every security camera at every business in this town. See where the car goes. Track it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miller,” Bellamy continues brusquely, “get in touch with Lincoln. Update him. Send him a picture of that sedan to put in the news. I want every person in America watching out for that car.”

  


*

  


Abby Griffin enters the White House on a mission. Her heels click against the expensive tile floor. Her light brown hair is coiffed into a perfect updo, and she wears a strand of expensive pearls on her neck. Her light pink blazer is unwrinkled from the private flight she took to Washington, D.C. The sea of staffers parts wordlessly as she stomps towards the West Wing.

She stalks past Octavia without a word, throwing open the door to the Oval Office. Inside, Finn jumps as the door slams against the wall behind it. Octavia, makeup free with puffy eyes, watches in fascination at the scene in front of her.

“M-Mrs. Griffin,” he stammers.

“Clarke has been abducted,” Abby states coolly.

“Yes,” Finn confirms, eyes on the carpet in front of him. His tie is crooked around his neck, and it’s obvious that he hasn’t shaved recently.

“Out from under the Secret Service’s nose.”

“I’m told that she went for a jog without security,” Finn says.

“Of course,” Abby sighs, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “So. Press Conference.”

Finn nods jerkily. “Follow me.”

  


*

  


Abby cries dutifully for the camera as she stands off to the side of the stage while Finn speaks. Finn’s voice breaks as he explains the situation. He pleads for Clarke’s safe return, big brown eyes turning to the camera as he puts aside his pride and begs. Raven dabs at her eyes with a tissue. The cameras flash. By the end of the press conference, there isn’t a dry eye in the room.

Bellamy watches the news out of the corner of his eye as he chugs his fourth (fifth? sixth? He lost track a while ago.) cup of black coffee. As of right now, there isn’t much that he can do. He has Monty and Jasper attempting to track the car. Several members of the Secret Service are in the process of hacking into various servers of their few suspects. Miller and his small team visited the scene of the kidnapping, not finding anything other than Clarke’s abandoned hat. For now, all Bellamy can do is wait and hope. They have strong suspicions, but they don’t have real leads. He can’t jump on a plane to some random destination in the Middle East, guns blazing. All he can do is wait. It’s killing him.

  


*

  


Clarke is half-asleep when the door to her room opens with a loud squeal that makes her shudder as the noise rings in her ears. Two men step inside. They wear black dress shirts and pants, their shoes shiny and expensive-looking. They share the same tanned skin tone and slicked back black hair. Their eyes are dark brown, dark enough to make her wonder if they even have irises. They could be brothers. They probably are, she decides, with their hooked noses and thin lips.

“I don’t suppose you’re offering room service,” she croaks. Her head feels fuzzy.

“Funny,” the slightly burlier brother says. He wears a gold chain around his tattooed neck that glints in the dim light from her sole lightbulb.

“Here,” the other man says stiffly, shoving a tray into her lap and stepping back warily. He looks younger, a bit less scary. His accent is thicker, but Clarke can’t place it.

Clarke frowns down at the food. It’s not what she was expecting. Ham sandwich, steaming mixed vegetables, a cup of water. No silverware, she notices darkly.

“I’m not hungry,” she lies.

“Then don’t eat it,” the older man snaps, moving towards the door.

Clarke glares at him stubbornly. “Where am I?”

The younger man glances at his stockier partner unsurely.

“Not important,” the older man says dismissively.

“Uh, actually,” Clarke grumbles, “it’s kind of important to me.”

“Shut up before we make you shut up,” he shoots back.

She’s tempted to stick her tongue out at him, but she has some degree of self-preservation. Instead she takes a vicious bite of her sandwich, trying not to notice how her mouth waters.

The younger man glances back at her when they leave, his face almost curious as he shuts the door firmly behind them, leaving Clarke alone once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke’s disappearance affects literally EVERYONE, so I’m trying to make this into a bit more of an ensemble story than it has been in the past. It’ll probs only last for a few chaps, though, if that’s not your thing.  
> A couple of you asked if I’m on tumblr. I am, but I don’t use it very much. I always post on there when I update a chapter tho, so if you wanna know a little before you get the AO3 notification, come check it out! thelilging (same username as on here)  
> Not sure when I’ll update next, but hey! I slammed out this baby in less than a day, so who knows what could happen? I’ve been rebitten by the writing bug.  
> Thoughts? Clarifications? Questions? Predictions? (Those are my fav reviews, btw. Love hearing what you guys think/what to see more of!)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this unplanned hiatus has been ridiculous, I know. Life got away from me. I'm sorry. I just reread all 50,000ish (how did that happen?!) words of this, and I am remotivated! For those of you (like me ungh) who completely forgot what's going on in this fanfic, here's a brief summary leading up to this point:
> 
> Clarke Griffin-Collins is in California, teaching a short series of classes at the prestigious Stanford University and staying at a ritzy hotel. Chafing under the Secret Services' constant surveillance, she decides to go out for a jog. Easy enough, right? Wrong. She's nabbed mid-run and sedated, only to wake up under the care of a pair of brothers.  
> Bellamy discovers her disappearance and panics. On the other side of the continent, the White House panics. Raven, shaken to the core by the news of Clarke's disappearance, ends things with Finn. And panics. Abby Griffin shows up in all her terrifying glory. Doesn't panic. (Go figure.)  
> Now all forces have mobilized to find and rescue the First Lady, but she has disappeared without a trace. Bellamy is slowly losing his mind. Lincoln is working around the clock at the White House. Finn, as useless as he was before, is even more catatonic now without Clarke or Raven to force him into action. All in all, everyone is spiraling downward. Fast.

Clarke wakes up with a pounding headache, her throat pinched with thirst. She opens her eyes and blinks slowly to clear her vision. She lies on her side, facing a dark gray wall, a scratchy blue blanket draped over her in a half-hearted attempt to protect her from the chill that permeates the damp room. Her wrists are still bound in front of her, the tender skin chafing from her movements while she slept.

Clarke sits up abruptly, groaning softly as the throbbing in her head increases dramatically. She ignores the pain, however, and scoots into herself when she sees the younger of her captors sitting on a chair across the room from her, studying her with an unreadable expression. A chill runs down her spine when her back hits the cold wall.

“Good morning,” he says, his tone terrifyingly neutral. “Have a good sleep?”

Clarke glowers at him. “Where am I?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse; talking hurts.

He raises an eyebrow and doesn't answer, a small smile playing at his lips. The fear in Clarke's stomach rolls precariously.

Clarke swallows back the anger that pulses inside of her, competing fiercely with the overwhelming terror that threatens to overwhelm her, and forces herself to keep her voice level. “What time is it?” she tries.

He shrugs and glances around the small room. “I honestly don't know.”

Clarke squints at the man. He looks younger than she originally thought, she decides, probably around twenty-five. Maybe even younger. He's changed from his black button-down into a gray crew-neck and black joggers, which make him look even younger. His hair, freed from the stubborn gel it was in the last time she saw him, is curly.

“What's your name?” Clarke asks.

He laughs, but it isn't harsh. “You're optimistic.”

“Are you going to make me guess?” she sneers.

He sends her a small, nearly apologetic smile, but then his eyes harden. “You should stop talking to me.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Clarke asks sharply. Her voice increases in pitch with each word until she is nearly hysterical as the full weight of the situation hits her. “Read a magazine? Check my emails? I hate to break it to you, but this isn't my idea of a nice, relaxing getaway.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards again before he seems to remember himself. “This isn't the _spa_ , Mrs. Collins.”

“Griffin-Collins,” she snaps.

Her captor doesn't respond and Clarke settles back into the stiff mattress, surveying the room around her and taking deep, steadying breaths as she tries not to let the panic-fueled bile in her stomach rise. The room is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet, and lit by a hanging lamp whose dim light doesn't quite reach the corners of the room. There's one window, but it's tiny and at the top of the ceiling, beyond Clarke's reach. Besides, it's been covered up anyways. As of right now, it's of no use to her. _Maybe later._

Her abductor lounges on a dark-stained wooden chair that looks surprisingly heavy. Other than his chair and her uncomfortable mattress, the room is bare of any furniture. The floor is wooden, stained a grayish-brown that matches the gray of the walls nearly perfectly. All-in-all, it's not bad for a kidnapper's hideout. Not even a spiderweb in sight.

“Is he your brother?” Clarke asks, tossing her head in the direction of the door.

The man looks at her suspiciously before nodding once, not offering up any additional information.

Clarke brings her wrists up to her eyes and squints at the complicated knots. “Were you once a boyscout?” she asks drily.

No response.

She tests the hold of the rope, but her tugging does nothing but irritate her already sore wrists. “So,” she continues, “is the rope an intentional throwback to the good old days? Aesthetically pleasing? Or did you just decide that buying handcuffs was too risky?”

No response.

Clarke collapses on the mattress on her back, looking up at the ceiling and willing her heart to stop pounding. How the _hell_ is she going to get out of this? White-hot anger pulses through her core, and she allows it to replace her fear. How _dare_ they kidnap her? God damn it, don't they realize what will happen to this country without her?

“If you're after ransom, we can negotiate that,” Clarke says bluntly. She sits up quickly and blinks away the dark spots that dance across her vision.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

Clarke sighs. “My parents are wealthy,” she explains shortly.

“We're a bit more interested in your husband,” he smirks.

“If you think you're getting ransom from the President of the United States, you're even bigger idiots than I realized.”

“Watch yourself,” he warns darkly.

Clarke glares back at him from across the room. She has never been one to back down from an argument, and she'll be damned if she starts now. Even if her palms are sweaty and her heart is in her throat. “Just bring me home,” she says, keeping her posture straight and face expressionless to balance out the pleading in her words. “You can't keep me here like this. They need me.”

He pulls a book from under his chair and flips to a bookmarked page, crossing his legs casually. “You're wasting your time.”

 

*

 

“Jasper. Monty. You're with me.”

Monty and Jasper exchange a panicked look before spinning their chairs around in unison to face Bellamy. “What's going on?” Jasper asks casually. He swallows nervously as he takes in the sight of his boss in front of him.

Bellamy knows he looks a little worse for wear. He's not oblivious to the apprehensive looks he has been receiving from the other members of the Secret Service. The last time he slept was when Clarke was safely in her bed in the hotel, which was nearly forty-eight hours ago. He's showered since then, but the beginnings of a beard passed the five o'clock shadow stage long ago. The bags under his eyes and the stress crinkles in his forehead have aged him a solid ten years over the past two days.

Monty and Jasper have taken up permanent residence in a spare room of the hotel that has become the Secret Service's impromptu headquarters. Although they are only interns and therefore much younger and less qualified than everyone else on the team, Monty and Jasper have been accepted into their ranks without question; having the support of Bellamy, who wields his leadership without apology, doesn't hurt their cause.

The windowless room is large and usually used for a conference room, but the team has rearranged it to fit their needs. Desks line the walls and agents sit in front of their computers, squinting at FBI Most Wanted pages and recent arrest records in California and the surrounding states. Phones ring off the hook with dead-end leads. At the center of the room is a table, piled high with now-cold leftover pizzas and untouched donuts; Bellamy isn't the only one who can't eat while Clarke is still missing.

Bellamy nods his head toward the door. “Follow me,” he rasps.

Monty and Jasper glance at each other once more before standing in unison and follow Bellamy out the door. The California sun hits them, and they blink rapidly. They haven't seen sunlight since Clarke disappeared; there's no time for sunning yourself when the First Lady is MIA.

Bellamy glances around the resort furtively before slipping into his darkened suite. Jasper and Monty duck in after him and watch as Bellamy points to the complicated computer equipment sitting just out of view of the window.

“Something tells me that you are the people to come to if I want something illegal to get done,” Bellamy says, folding his arms across his chest and raising his eyebrows. For a moment, he almost looks like his old self.

Monty and Jasper eye each other, doing the freaky thing where they seem to communicate through their thoughts. They turn their attention back to Bellamy at the same time, suddenly comfortable. Monty tosses his dark hair out of his eyes, and Jasper smirks at their boss.

“You came to the right people.”

 

*

 

Octavia Blake has seen a lot in her time at the White House. She's used to seeing the Collins administration morph into crisis mode; the circles under their eyes are darker, their frowns are deeper, and their strides are faster. But she's never seen a crisis mode like this.

Finn locks himself in his office and refuses to come out or let anyone in. Lincoln hasn't returned home since hearing the news of Clarke's kidnapping, instead spending time in the Situation Room round-the-clock. The White House Press Secretary bursts into tears after one especially rough press conference and refuses to go back out in front of the rabid reporters. Even Octavia, who has never been a nervous person, finds her stomach churning as she obsessively reloads all the major news outlets' websites. She keeps the news on constantly, volume just above a whisper as she monitors it and pretends to work on Finn's schedule but instead scours the online message boards about Clarke's kidnapping. She has never been a crier, but she finds herself muffling her sobs into crumpled wads of toilet paper as she hides in the women's bathroom several times each day.

Abby Griffin has taken up permanent residence in the White House, and she storms the halls as though she owns them, head held high and posture perfect as her heels clip the floors. Octavia has yet to see the older woman shed a tear. Instead, Clarke's mother seemingly picks up right where Clarke left off, complete with sitting in Clarke's office and ordering Harper around. Octavia is a little pissed about it, if she's being honest, but she knows when to keep her mouth shut. Abby Griffin is not someone to mess with.

If Octavia thought the media was crazed before, they become downright out of control with Clarke's disappearance. The Secret Service agents begin a tally on their locker room white board with the number of reporters escorted off of the property and handed over to the police for trespassing after sneaking onto the grounds in search of the latest update on Clarke's situation. One night Octavia is followed home from work by a particularly determined young journalist. She may or may not have called the police; it had been a long day, after all, and she hadn't slept in what felt like years. That girl picked the wrong White House secretary to mess with.

Zealous Republicans loudly demand for war. Finn's opponents attack him for his continued inaction, especially after he threatened war to secure Sterling Morgan's return. Those who criticize Clarke's decision to ditch her security detail are quickly silenced by the majority's new-found unwavering support for their First Lady. Both Finn and Clarke's individual approval ratings skyrocket.

Octavia can't sleep. She can't help but feel that something is building. First Sterling, and now the beloved First Lady? It's only a matter of time before shit hits the fan, she reasons as she flips through the 24-hour news channels from the safety of her king-sized bed, skin pale against the harsh bluish light of the television. She only hopes no one else is taken out in the crossfire.

 

*

 

There are very few people who Bellamy Blake would trust implicitly with finding Clarke. Honestly, he doesn't quite trust himself with the task. And, as the hours continue to crawl by without any leads, that number dwindles.

“Here's the deal,” he says, his voice low as he towers over Jasper and Monty at their computers in Bellamy's dimly lit hotel room. The remnants of a soggy pizza box are stuffed in the garbage can, and Jasper chews the last slice loudly. “I don't trust anyone right now. I have a bad feeling about this. I want you two to do whatever you can think of to find her, understood?”

Jasper leans forward. “Whatever we can think of?” he echoes.

Bellamy nods firmly, not breaking eye contact. “Whatever you can think of.”

“Well,” Monty says, rubbing his hands together. The corners of his mouth twitch with what might be a smile in better times. “That changes things.”

 

*

 

There's no way of measuring time once you have been kidnapped, Clarke quickly discovers. The hours drag as she internally berates herself for her part in her own kidnapping. Why did she ever think that going off on her own was a good idea?

She can only imagine what Bellamy is going through. He's such a protector, she thinks tearfully, that he is probably blaming himself for her kidnapping. If she never gets out, how will he ever forgive himself? Move on to someone else? The thought chokes Clarke up, and she pushes it aside. She can't think like that. She has to stay positive.

She watches her captors a lot. The older brother is rarely in her room, but the younger one seems to have taken up the job of keeping an eye on her. He goes through books quickly, she notices, and he doesn't have bad taste. There are a lot of classics: _To Kill a Mockingbird, A Tale of Two Cities, Hamlet_. He isn't an idiot, Clarke decides.

She wishes he was.

They feed her regularly. It's not high quality stuff—a lot of sandwiches with the occasional bowl of macaroni and cheese, oddly enough—but it's enough to keep her from going hungry. And it gives her clues, so she's mildly pacified.

“We're still in the US, aren't we?” she asks one day.

The younger brother looks up from _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,_ his expression guarded. “Why do you say that?”

She sighs and pokes at her slightly stale sandwich. “You gave me a ham sandwich on my first day here. Doesn't exactly fit with the whole Middle Eastern charade you've had going on.”

He swallows and folds over the corner of his page, resting the book on his lap and folding his arms across his chest. “What's your point?”

“They're going to find me,” she says confidently. “It's only a matter of time. Things will look a lot better for you if you help me out than if they find me here and you haven't done anything for me.”

“What do you want?”

Clarke licks her chapped lips, her heart pounding. She's treading on thin ice here, but so far he has been surprisingly open to the conversation. He hasn't actually answered any of her questions, but he hasn't shut her down either. Baby steps.

“I don't know what the end goal is here,” Clarke proceeds cautiously, “but this won't end well for you. I'm married to the most powerful man in the world, and he'll do whatever it takes to get me back. Kidnapping the First Lady is unforgivable. The whole world is looking for me at this point. And they'll find me eventually. I know they will.

“But you can change this,” she says, leaning forwards emphatically, her eyes alight with hope despite the clenching of her stomach with nerves. “You can help me get home, and in return I'll vouch for you. I'll get them to go easy on you. I'm a woman of my word.”

He hesitates, and Clarke's heart leaps into her throat. She hadn't expected him to let her speak that much. She hadn't expected anything, to be honest.

But then his expression hardens and he leans backward, the spell broken. He chuckles, rubs a hand across his forehead. “I knew you'd be slippery,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You sure know how to manipulate people, Mrs. Collins. I'll give you that.”

Clarke wilts at his words, all of her unchecked optimism leaking out of her. She stares at him defiantly, daring him to continue.

“It was a nice effort,” he says. He stands abruptly and looks down at her, smirking slightly. “Better luck next time, I suppose.”

He leaves, letting the door slam behind him, and Clarke is left alone. She collapses on her back on the mattress and, as she stares up at the ceiling, feels the tears begin to pool in her eyes. For the first time since her kidnapping, she lets herself cry. Sobs wrack her body, shaking her to her core. She curls in on herself, letting the salty tears slide down her cheeks without wiping away the burning trails.

 

*

 

As it turns out, Clarke Griffin-Collins is a frequent topic of conversation on telephone calls in the United States. Bellamy isn't quite sure how Monty and Jasper have managed to track all of the mentions of her name (not that he really wants to know how they do it anyhow), but he's not completely morally opposed to listening in on the conversations his interns capture. After all, what is the Patriot Act for if he can't use it to hunt down the First Lady's captors?

Okay, it's a stretch. He knows that. If anyone finds out about this, he's almost certainly going to lose his job and any hope of ever working for the US government again. But he'll do anything to find Clarke.

Listening to the stolen conversations isn't as easy as he would have guessed. A good majority of the phone calls are people laughing about Clarke's fate, saying she deserved it. He has to leave the room a few times. But there are plenty that make his heart swell as well. He'd somehow managed to forget the version of the First Lady that the public was presented—champion of women's rights, crusader for equality of opportunity and education, kind yet firm foreign diplomat—in favor of the Clarke he knows, the strong, fiery, unapologetic, brash woman that he loves so much. Bellamy listens as older women share prayers for Clarke and the nation, as teenagers express their hope for her safe return, as mothers fearfully ponder what will happen to the country without its First Lady as they hush their cooing babies in the backgrounds of the telephone calls. It's moving and it's terrible and it only serves to make him more determined to find Clarke. Not for him, although he doesn't know what he will do if she is gone forever, but for all the working class, everyday Americans whose livelihoods indirectly rest on Clarke's slim yet fully capable shoulders.

And so he, Monty, and Jasper begin searching with a new fervor. Monty narrows down the wide range of conversations intercepted until they review only the negative ones that make the hair on the back of Bellamy's neck stand on end. Monty uses keywords that he doesn't tell Bellamy and Bellamy doesn't ask for until they are listening to conversation after conversation about how Clarke Griffin-Collins is getting what she deserves, about how they hope she is never found. About how they wish this would have happened sooner.

But there is still nothing useful.

Bellamy wants to yell. He wants to throw an epic tantrum and destroy the hotel room until it is unrecognizable. He wants to let out all of this nervous, panicked energy that has been eating away at his insides ever since Clarke disappeared. But he doesn't. He doesn't because he knows how much that would hurt Clarke. He knows how she would narrow her eyes at him and fold her arms across her chest, closing herself off from him, and how she would be reminded of Finn's outbursts. Bellamy knows that she needs him now. She needs him to be in his best form so that he can find her, so that he can bring her home. She needs him sane and rested and calm, no matter how impossible that may seem.

And so he sleeps when Monty and Jasper make him. He swallows down the food they shove at him with some difficulty, not paying attention to what it is. He drinks when they toss him water bottles and showers when they start making very unsubtle hints about how it's about time for him to wash up. He does push-ups as he listens to what feels like the millionth conversation he has reviewed. He does sit-ups to wake himself up when his brain starts to fog over.

He functions. He survives. But he doesn't live.

 

*

 

Octavia stares up at the hotel, shading her eyes against the California sun, a stark contrast to the seemingly permanent cloud cover that has taken over DC. The hotel is large and so fancy it is nearly gaudy, with a red roof and brilliant flowers of every color of the rainbow standing out in stark contrast to the simple white of the walls. The petunias overflow from their beds, and Octavia can't help but feel something akin to fury stirring in her stomach at the deceptively cheerful sight in front of her. Who has time to water those flowers when the First Lady has been kidnapped? When Octavia feels as though her own life (and the lives of everyone she knows) have been put on hold, held in limbo by the faint, quickly diminishing, hope that Clarke will be found safe and sound?

She takes a deep breath but the overwhelming sweetness of the blooms does nothing to calm her, so she pushes her way to the gate, where she is greeted by a team of three police officers and three Secret Service agents whom she vaguely recognizes from the White House.

“Octavia Blake,” she says, handing over all of the forms of identification she was told to bring with her. She nods at the Secret Service agents, all of whom look far worse for wear than she remembers them from before, and waits as her name is found on the list of people allowed into the impromptu Secret Service base.

“Do you know where my brother is?” she asks as her papers and license are returned to her.

“Probably upstairs,” the youngest of the men answers her. He can't be more than twenty-five, and Octavia's heart hurts for him. She can't imagine the pressure every person here must be facing, and to deal with that at such a young age? It's a wonder none of them have had nervous breakdowns yet.

Octavia thanks them and follows their directions until she stands in front of what has to be one of the nicer suites in the hotel. She is just about to knock when she notices that the door is cracked ever so slightly. Frowning, she pushes it open gently and carefully steps into the room. The curtains are drawn and the room is hot and stuffy, as though it hasn't seen sunlight in days. Octavia notices her brothers favorite shoes kicked off to the side of the doorway haphazardly, and she moves in a bit more confidently, shedding her light jacket when she is greeted by the full force of the room's heat.

Traces of Bellamy are everywhere. Empty water bottles, crumpled after use, are strewn across the granite kitchen counter. A half-finished beer is precariously propped up on the couch. (Octavia rolls her eyes at that one and quickly tosses it in the trash. The last thing her brother needs right now is alcohol.) A few paper plates hold the remnants of slices of pizza, all the black olives picked off and beginning to smell a little funky, and multiple granola bars have been started but abandoned in an apparent rush to get somewhere. All in all, it's a disaster area. Octavia isn't the least bit surprised.

She opens the door to the bedroom slowly to reveal her brother, fast asleep on the king-sized bed on his stomach, snoring softly and wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a long-sleeved tan shirt with the sleeves tugged up to reveal the muscles of his forearms. The blankets are twisted and rumpled, kicked off during Bellamy's deep sleep.

Octavia moves to her brother's side, stepping over the piles of clothes with a wrinkle of her nose, and cautiously reaches out to rub Bellamy's back. He lets out a breath as she scratches down his spine.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, slowly sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, Bell, time to get up.”

Bellamy rolls onto his back, eyes closed. “Two minutes,” he mumbles as he slings an arm over his eyes. “Gimme two minutes, Princess.”

Octavia furrows her brow, wondering exactly who this _princess_ is, before trying again, a bit louder this time. “Bell,” she says. “It's Octavia. Wake up.”

Bellamy shifts his arm to reveal one eye and blinks at her in sleepy confusion. He startles and then jerks away with a jolt, sitting up quickly and staring at Octavia in surprise.

“O?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep. He rubs his eyes and reopens them, staring at his younger sister in amazement. “What're you doing here?”

“Bell,” Octavia says, giving him a sad smile, “I've come to take you home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I took some creative liberties when writing Monty, Jasper, and Bellamy's illegal activities haha. Just roll with it.
> 
> Special thanks to those of you who wrote comments and gave kudos during my excessively long break. They really did motivate me to get moving on this story. I promise that the next chapter won't take nearly as long.
> 
> Thoughts?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week?! Hell yeah.  
> For those of you who don't remember, Fox is the President's Chief Speechwriter. She is briefly mentioned in this chapter.

“ _Bell,” Octavia says, giving him a sad smile, “I've come to take you home.”_

 

Bellamy gapes at Octavia for a moment and she waits, cringing internally as she watches the gears turn in his head as his still half-asleep brain processes her announcement.

“I hope you're joking,” he finally says. His voice is deadly calm, deep with anger.

Teenage Octavia experienced that tone of voice more times than present-day Octavia is willing to admit, and the teenager inside of her is unabashedly shying away from the violent storm that Bellamy Blake is about to turn into. Present-day Octavia is, however, a fully-functioning adult who refuses to take her brother's shit.

Well, she'd like to think so anyways.

“I know it's not ideal,” she says quickly, “but--”

“ _Not ideal_?” Bellamy repeats, running a hand through his sleep-mussed dark curls. His jaw clenches and his eyes are puffed from sleep yet defiant as he glowers at his sister, daring her to continue.

“It's time,” she says by way of explanation, praying that Bellamy will accept her reasoning and follow her home without a fight.

Naturally, that would be far too easy.

“ _It's time_?” Bellamy echoes, his words hardening and eyes narrowing with each passing second. “Clarke is still _missing_ , Octavia. It won't be time for me to go home until Clarke is safe and coming home with me. You know that. So why are you here?”

“It's not coming from me, Bellamy!” she defends herself. “It's from someone up at the top. I-I don't even know whose decision it was. I was just told to come here and bring you back. That your position in California is being terminated.”

“ _Terminated_?”

Octavia hurriedly digs around in her purse and pulls out a slightly crinkled but still sealed envelope, stamped with the White House seal and addressed to Bellamy. “I was told to give you this if you put up a fight.”

“If I put up a fight?”

“Do you have to repeat every damn thing I say?” Octavia snaps.

Bellamy glares at his sister and snatches the envelope out of her hand, tearing it open messily. Octavia bites at her lip and nervously watches him scan the paper inside. After holding it like a bomb in her purse for the entirety of her transcontinental flight, she's ready to explode from curiosity. Delayed gratification is not something Octavia Blake is familiar with.

“Well?” she finally prompts him.

Bellamy stands and tosses the paper at her before slipping on his shoes without looking at Octavia once. “If you'll excuse me, I need to make a call to the President.”

 

*

 

As it turns out, it's quite difficult to get the President of the United States on the phone. That is, unless you use a secure Secret Service line and tell his stand-in secretary that you have very important information concerning the disappearance of the President's wife. Then it isn't so difficult.

“Collins,” Bellamy barks as soon as the President answers.

“ _Agent Blake?”_ Finn asks, his voice small over the distant connection. “ _What's going on? There is, ah, news on Clarke?_ ”

“Nothing new to report,” Bellamy forces out through gritted teeth. He scowls and squints down at the letter in his hand. “I just need some clarification as to why I'm being summoned away from the investigation into _your wife's kidnapping_.”

“ _Ah,”_ Finn says, his voice distinctly cooler than it was when he first answered the phone. _“Well, Agent Blake, unfortunately with things like this we are forced to, ah, redefine our strategies when we are not finding success with the process thus far—”_

“Cut the shit, Collins,” Bellamy snaps. “You know as well as I do that I'm the best fucking person to look for the First Lady. I want to know what you're plotting. Quit fucking with me.”

“ _Do I need to remind you to whom you're speaking, Blake? I don't appreciate your tone,”_ Finn retorts icily. _“To address your concerns, oftentimes those who are the most, ah, personally invested in the investigation are the least capable of doing jobs that they would otherwise excel at.”_

Bellamy swallows, his throat dry. “You're making a mistake, Collins. I'm needed here.”

“ _Is that all, Agent Blake?”_ Finn drawls, sounding distinctly bored with their conversation. _“I'm a very busy man, you know. Leader of the free world and all.”_

Anyone who knows Bellamy Blake knows that patronizing is not the best strategy when attempting to persuade him to do your bidding.

Finn Collins does not know Bellamy Blake.

“Fuck you, Collins,” Bellamy snarls. “I'm staying. If you want me there so goddamn bad, come get me yourself.”

And then he hangs up on the leader of the free world.

Bellamy feels the best he has in days.

 

*

 

This must be some cruel joke orchestrated by karma, Clarke decides. She must have complained about her lack of free time too much prior to her kidnapping, and God got sick of it and decided to teach her a lesson.

These are the kinds of things that she thinks about now that she has endless time to dwell in her thoughts.

It's hell. Honest-to-God hell.

She thinks about Bellamy a lot. And Finn. And Raven.

If she gets out (When. _When_ she gets out, she repeats to herself over and over again until the mantra burns into the backs of her eyelids when she tries to sleep.), she isn't going to waste any more time. Life is too short. She's going to end things with Finn in the most civil way possible and confess her feelings to Bellamy. She's going to have a really good, long conversation with Raven and get out everything she's been holding inside for the past fifteen years. It's going to be wonderful and probably very stressful, but everything will be out in the moment. She won't be wasting any more time.

And, okay, maybe her head is a little messed up from the boredom. When was the last time she and Finn had a civil conversation that didn't somehow result in them yelling? But it's a nice thought. Her brain is occupied for a solid hour while she thinks about what she would say to him. Fantasizing about how to end your marriage is probably not what most kidnapped wives think about while being held hostage, but Clarke Griffin-Collins has never been like most women.

She decides that she kind of likes the younger of her kidnappers, as bizarre as that sounds. She starts calling him Junior in her head since he (unsurprisingly) refuses to tell her his name. Although she is a bit encouraged by that. If they were just going to murder her and dispose of her corpse in some deserted wilderness, why would they be opposed to giving up their names? That's the thought that helps Clarke sleep at night anyways.

Junior's books are still a rotating library of classics. Good ones, too. _War and Peace, Hamlet, The Metamorphosis, Gulliver's Travels._ He goes through them at an impressive speed, if Clarke says so herself. And, yeah, it really pisses her off that he sits there and gets to do something exciting while she stares at a gray wall for hours on end, but still. He can't be all that bad if he's into books like that, right?

She doesn't talk to Junior much, but when they do exchange a word or two he isn't straight up evil, although she'd almost prefer him to be. He seems far too young to be involved in a plot to kidnap the First Lady. He kind of reminds her of a taller, more muscular version of Monty, except not quite as sweet and hugable. A bit better at striking fear into her heart.

“Can I read those when you're done?” she finally asks him one day.

Junior jumps, almost as though he had forgotten she was there, and looks up from _Don Quixote._ He glances down at the book and then back up at her before his gaze darts to the door and back to his prisoner. He swallows, his prominent Adam's apple bouncing in an almost nervous fashion.

“I, uh, don't see why not,” he finally says. His eyes widen, and he looks at the door one last time. “Don't tell my brother, okay?”

Clarke nods obediently, inwardly shocked at her luck.

“ _The Iliad_ or _Catch-22_?” Junior asks unsurely.

Clarke doesn't even have to think about it. “ _The Iliad,_ ” she requests softly.

Junior tosses the worn book at her and she catches it with her bound hands easily, running a hand over the paperback cover.

_Bellamy's favorite._

 

*

 

As the President's secretary, Octavia Blake doesn't actually do all that much. She arranges his schedule, of course, and is somewhat in charge of making sure he's in the right place at the right time, but she doesn't actually have to make important decisions. Like, ever. Her job doesn't actually require that much skill. Just patience. Lots and lots of patience.

And so, when faced with a direct, written order from the Director of the United States Secret Service to bring her brother back to Washington, DC, that is exactly what she plans to do.

Unfortunately for Octavia, her brother is Bellamy Blake, the most headstrong person on the planet. And boy, does he have a plan.

“Bellamy,” she tries desperately, half-jogging to keep up with his longer legs as he strides purposefully down the hotel hallway, pulling a black hoodie on over his dark gray t-shirt. “this could cost you your job. You can't just ignore orders from the director of the Secret Service.”

Bellamy shakes her hand off of his arm and continues down the hall, jaw clenched tightly and hands balled into tense fists. “We are not discussing this, Octavia,” he bites out.

“Yes, we are!” Octavia argues. “I know it's hard, Bell. But you can't let it get in the way of your life. You have to keep moving.”

Bellamy rounds on his sister, eyes flashing as he towers over her. Octavia stares unabashedly back up at him with her arms folded across her chest stubbornly. She's put up with explosions of Bellamy's like this before, seeing as how he practically raised her, and her inner tantrum radar is telling her that it's okay to push him this time. What can she say? She knows her brother.

“This is my fault, Octavia,” Bellamy explains harshly. “When I make a mistake, I fix it. And that is what I'm going to do. I swore that I would give my life to protect Clarke's when I took this job, and if that's what it takes to bring her home then that is what will happen. I will sacrifice my job, my livelihood, my career... Whatever. I-I don't care. It doesn't matter. But I'm not going back to DC to be shoved into an office somewhere to deal with _counterfeiters_ when Clarke could be _dead_ for all I know right now. Jesus! Fuck!”

Octavia sniffles and throws her arms around her brother, burying her face in his neck. Bellamy freezes before tentatively wrapping an arm around her.

“I'm sorry, Bell,” Octavia whispers into his skin. “I know this must be so, so hard on you.”

Bellamy clears his throat and buries his face in her dark hair.

“She's okay,” Octavia continues, swallowing back a sob as he runs a hand down her back comfortingly. Only her big brother would try to comfort her when he's the one who is hurting so badly. “She's okay, Bell, she has to be. I can feel it. She's still out there. She's okay.”

“I hope you're right,” Bellamy finally replies, his voice hoarse. “I really hope you're right, O.”

 

*

 

“What's your favorite of the books you've read?”

Junior looks up from his current book ( _The Brothers Karamazov_ ) and surveys Clarke over its spine. Wearing a pair of straight-legged khakis and a forest green long-sleeve with the sleeves rolled up, he looks even younger than normal. He could pass as a college student, Clarke thinks sadly. He works his jaw, considering her, before taking a deep breath. “I like them all,” he finally confesses. “This is an especially good one, though.”

Clarke smirks at him, familiar with the plot of _The Brothers Karamazov_. “See some parallels between the characters' life of crime and you and your brother?”

Even Junior cracks a half-smile at that. “I do find it... relatable.”

Clarke rolls onto her back, letting _The Great Gatsby_ fall onto the floor beside her mattress. She stares at the ceiling and lets out a heavy sigh. “I'd never read _The Iliad_ before.”

Junior doesn't say anything, not that Clarke was really expecting him to, but she takes his non-response as an invitation to continue.

“I have a, um, friend who's a huge history nerd,” she says. Above her, the gray ceiling is dark and damp. It matches her mood. Dreary. Homesick. Ready for this all to be over. “He loves that book. _The Iliad_. So, so much. He just loves history in general. And I know my history better than most, obviously. It comes with the territory. I mean, I went to law school. I'm the First Lady. I know history. But I don't love it like he does. It's a passion for him. You can just see the passion when he talks about it, you know? It just—It just _consumes_ him. His eyes light up and he talks with his hands even more than he usually does, and...” She pauses, clears her throat. Blinks away the tears that have welled in her eyes. “He told me to read _The Iliad_. He told me to read it because he loves it and he wanted to share what he loves with me, but I brushed him off. I told him I didn't have time. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was like I was brushing his feelings and opinions aside. It was like my time was too valuable to validate him and his interests. Does that even make sense?”

Junior inclines his head once, actually acknowledging her words. Clarke just about falls off the mattress in surprise.

“And now here I am, stuck in this room doing nothing but twiddling my thumbs, and I'll probably never get to see him again. But now at least I've read the fucking _Iliad._ And it wasn't even that fucking good.”

Junior snorts—S _norts!!_ Clarke's brain shrieks. _An actual reaction!!!_ —and he uncrosses his legs, leans forward until his forearms are resting on his thighs. “I'm not getting paid to be your therapist, you know,” he says.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “If you were a therapist I think you'd actually give me some advice instead of sitting there and judging me the whole time.”

Junior shrugs. “Are you hungry? I'll go get dinner.”

He leaves, letting the door slam shut behind him, and Clarke collapses back on the mattress, unable to stop the smirk that dances across her lips.

She forgot how wonderful it feels to have everything go according to plan.

 

*

 

“My wife has been kidnapped.” Finn Collins's voice rings through the White House Briefing Room. For once all of the reporters are silent, enraptured by the President's first time publicly addressing Clarke's fate.

Finn pauses, letting his words sink in as the cameras' flashes leave burning blind spots in his vision, and takes a deep, uneven breath. “My wife—my beautiful, brilliant, kind Clarke—has been taken by an undoubtedly violent, un-American group of rebels. I don't know where she is. I don't know if she has been harmed by these radicals. I don't know if she is being fed adequately, if she is being physically or mentally abused. But I do know this: my wife has not given up. She has not let them beat down her strong, unwavering spirit. She has not given up hope in her country coming to her rescue. Because that is who she is.

“To the American people—to Clarke's people: Your First Lady needs you more than ever. I need you more than ever. It is time for you to stand up and fight back. _This is not acceptable._ Show Clarke's captors what happens when you provoke the American people. Show them what happens when you mess with the greatest country on Earth. Fight for Clarke. Fight for my girl.

“To Clarke's kidnappers: You have succeeded. You have taken the love of my life. You have taken the strongest, most selfless woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You have taken the best First Lady our country has ever been blessed with. But I can promise you this: I will not rest until I have found my wife. The Federal Bureau of Investigation will not rest until they have found our First Lady. The American people will not rest until they have found their fearless, magnanimous, devoted leader.

“With that said, I can promise that every resource available will be mobilized in the hunt for Clarke Griffin-Collins. There will be no stone left unturned. We will scour every building, every street, every river, every mountain under the great American skies. And we will find her. I can promise you that. Thank you. Good night. And God bless America.”

 

Three thousand miles away, on the other side of the country, Bellamy Blake turns off the television and turns to see three gazes trained on him nervously.

“Well,” he murmurs, avoiding making eye contact with his sister, Jasper, and Monty, “Fox sure can work miracles.”

 

*

 

Clarke is abruptly woken out of a deep sleep, complete with dreams of her life at the White House, by the sound of her door slamming open against the wall behind it. She sits with a jolt and blinks the sleep out of her eyes to see both Junior and his brother standing before her. Junior has been pushed into the background, his eyes wary as he regards his older brother.

“Get up,” the older brother commands. His voice is deeper than Junior's. Rougher. Undoubtedly the voice of a man. “You're coming with me.”

Clarke had begun to settle into somewhat of a routine in her prison, but something about the tone of his voice makes the hair on the back of her arms stand up. She scrambles to her feet, legs wobbly after so little use over the past few days (weeks..? She curses herself every day for not keeping better track of how long she has been held prisoner).

The older brother clamps handcuffs around her wrists with a menacing clink of metal, and then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. Clarke looks to Junior, eyes wide with confusion, and he jerks his head for Clarke to follow his older brother. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever she may come across, before taking a few tentative steps out of her cell.

She commits every detail to memory, but there aren't many. The hallway is dimly lit and windowless, painted off-white, with two closed doors on either side. At the end of the hallway there is another door. Leading to freedom, perhaps?

Junior's brother unlocks the door next to Clarke's prison and stands back, gesturing for her to enter the room first.

“What's going on?” she asks, wincing internally as her voice breaks at the end of her question.

“Inside,” the brother commands. “Now.”

The room inside is completely different from the makeshift cell she had grown comfortable in. One wall of the room is covered in wood that has been carefully crafted to appear worn. A dim light bulb hangs from the ceiling above a wooden stool.

Clarke frowns at the scene in front of her, nearly certain that she has seen it all before, but then it hits her. “Do you have Sterling?” she gasps, spinning around and backing into the wall. Her eyes dart between Junior, who hovers in the doorway, and his brother, who stands fully in the room with his arms folded across his puffed out chest.

“Sit,” the brother demands firmly as he points at the stool.

“Talk,” Clarke challenges fiercely, rising to her full height.

“I will tie you to the goddamn stool if I have to,” he snarls.

Clarke glances at Junior, praying that he will say something different, but his eyes are dim. Disconnected. She's in this alone.

Clarke shifts her attention back to Junior's brother. “I want an explanation.”

“Yeah, yeah, your highness, we get it,” he sneers. “You're used to everyone falling all over themselves to give you what you want. That's not happening here. So either you sit down on your own or I force you to do so. Your choice.”

Clarke huffs and crosses the room to throw herself down on the stool. “Happy?”

“Not particularly.”

Junior moves into the room, and Clarke notices a silver camcorder in his hand for the first time. Her throat dries as the situation suddenly falls into perfect clarity in her head.

“You want me to make a video.”

The older brother grins, revealing a gold tooth that makes Clarke's stomach twist. “See? I knew she couldn't be a complete idiot,” he smirks to Junior.

Junior doesn't crack a smile, just powers on the camcorder.

“Here's the deal, your majesty,” the older brother continues. “You're going to talk. Talk about yourself a little bit so that they know it's really you. Say that you've been treated fairly well. But then you're going to make a few demands for us, okay, sweetie? Prisoners released from Guantanamo Bay. We'll have cue cards with their names for you to read off of.”

“I know their names,” Clarke growls. “I've seen the fucking Sterling Morgan videos.”

Big Brother's wolfish smirk widens. “Perfect. You're a politician, so I know you can act. We're going to do this over and over again until you get it perfect, okay? And if it still isn't just right, well, then we may have to reevaluate the part about how well you're being treated. Create a sense of... Urgency.”

Clarke swallows painfully. She's not an idiot. She knows what he's threatening.

“Alrighty then!” he says, taking a step backward and rubbing his hands together in malicious enthusiasm, sneering as his eyes bore into Clarke's. “You ready, cameraman?”

Junior nods once, expressionless.

Big Brother's lips curl until his venomous grin looks painful as it pulls against his cheeks. “And... Action!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant thank you goes out to everyone who left such awesome, encouraging comments after the last chapter! I didn't know how many of you I would lose after that very long, unplanned hiatus, so it's great to see how many of you are still with me.
> 
> Also, what are your thoughts on Season 3 of The 100? So far I've been really impressed. Just wish there were more Bellarke scenes :( But what can ya do. I'm used to that feeling haha
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE. And so, so sorry. I looked at this story the other day and was honestly so shocked when I saw that it hasn't been updated since February! Has it really been that long?? I don't have a decent excuse, either. Things have been a little crazy. I suffered from a bit of writer's block for an unnecessarily long time. It's shitty.  
> Giant shoutout to everyone who has still been reading and leaving such nice comments! I know how frustrating it gets when an author can't seem to update on a regular schedule... A huge reason that this chapter is finally here is because of the motivation I received from your comments! I'm not abandoning this story, I promise. The next chapter is already underway.
> 
> For those of you who completely forgot where we are in this story (like me), here's a quick synopsis:  
> Clarke has been kidnapped by Junior (the nickname she calls him because he refuses to give her a real name) and his older brother while going for a secret run. (Smh, girlfriend, for someone who's supposedly so smart, you're kind of a dumbass.) Bellamy is still in Palo Alto, CA, with other members of the Secret Service, FBI, and local police officers, trying desperately to find Clarke. Octavia has also recently joined the search. She originally brought an order from the President for Bellamy to come home, but when has Bellamy ever listened to Finn? *shrugs* So now she's just killing time and playing hookie, trying desperately to keep Bellamy alive and well-fed. The National Security Council (made up most notably of Finn, the President; Raven, VPOTUS; and Lincoln, the President's National Security Advisor) has received a video from a terrorist organization of Clarke, whom we saw film it under duress at the end of Chapter 16. Also, Roma Bragg is Bellamy's girlfriend from his stint in the army. Before Octavia knew about his and Clarke's illicit activities, she considered the possibility of Bellamy and Roma being back together. She hasn't played a big role in this story, but she will enter our cast of characters in this chapter.
> 
> Happy reading :)

Octavia Blake hates running. She did cross country for one season in high school and wasn't half bad, but Bellamy still has occasional flashbacks to all the whining and complaining she did over those two miserable, sweaty months. In her last race of the year, she got her best time yet, ending up placing third. Bellamy was bursting with pride until she told him a few years later that the only reason she did so well was because she cut through the woods, bypassing half of the course in the process. She just really, really hates running. It's basically a personality characteristic at this point.

And that's how Bellamy knows something serious is happening when Octavia bursts into the camp he has set up with Monty and Jasper, chest heaving from the exertion and barely able to get a word out.

Bellamy leaps to his feet and places his hands on his younger sister's shoulders, bending his knees slightly until they're the same height. “O?” he asks urgently. “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

“Call... For you,” Octavia pants, hands on her hips as she fights to catch her breath. “From the White House... Situation Room.”

Bellamy's face drains of color. “Where?”

“Follow me.” And then Octavia is running again, this time out of the room with her long hair streaming behind her, and the full gravity of the situation hits Bellamy. Something is really wrong.

Thoughts race through his mind at a million miles per minute as he trails his sister through the open air hallways of the hotel and to his villa. He frowns as she fumbles with the key before finally tumbling into the apartment over her own feet and snatching his laptop up off of the couch.

“Octavia!” Bellamy bellows.

His sister jumps and raises an eyebrow at him, clearly affronted by his tone.

“What is going _on_?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Raven called me,” she finally explains, still breathless from their sprint through the hotel. “They got another video. She thought—I don't even know, Bellamy, but she said she wanted you to watch it with them over webcam.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

Octavia fiddles around with his computer, typing away and clicking at buttons that he doesn't even pretend to understand, until suddenly Raven's stony face appears on his laptop, hair pulled into its usual severe ponytail. She sits in the dark leather interior of a government car, its movements jostling her and the screen every few seconds.

“Here's the stitch,” she says, and Bellamy can't help but feel a bit better at Raven's usual brusque tone. “Wick just got a call that there's been another video sent to us. Through that encrypted server or whatever shitty excuse we have for not being able to track it. I don't fucking understand it and I don't expect to anytime soon. I'm a mechanic, not a computer geek—”

“Raven!” Octavia interrupts, voice anxious. “Focus!”

“Fuck,” Raven sighs, tugging at the lapels of her black blazer. “Sorry. They just—They think it's Clarke. They wouldn't say anything over the phone, just in case, obviously, but... Wick and I both heard it. I wanted Bellamy to be there with us when we watched it.”

Bellamy falls into the kitchen chair in front of him and buries his head in his hands. “Holy shit.”

Octavia rests a comforting hand on his right shoulder and leans forward so that Raven can see her better. “How long until you get there, Raven?”

“We're pulling up to the White House now,” Raven answers, eyes flickering away to look at something outside of the car window. “Listen, guys, I don't know what we're going to see in there or what's going to be said, so I'll have to approve this little Skype session with the other members of the National Security Council. It's highly against protocol, I know, but I just figured they're less likely to reject it if you're already here.”

“Thanks, Raven,” Octavia says. She rubs Bellamy's shoulder soothingly. “We appreciate it.”

Raven cuts off microphone access pretty soon after and passes the call onto Wick, who waves forlornly into the camera, even scruffier than normal. Octavia and Bellamy get an interesting view of his suit-covered chest and tie for what feels like years until suddenly Raven's blazer and tanned collarbones take over the screen. Her face follows soon after with a short nod before the sound returns.

“Octavia,” Raven says, wincing slightly at the words that are about to come out of her mouth. “I'm sorry but you don't have the clearance to be in here. Only Bellamy.”

Octavia's first instinct is to argue, but then she looks down at her brother, so tired and desperate for news on Clarke, and nods her acceptance to Raven. “I understand,” she says. “Bell, I'll be right outside if you need anything, okay?”

She leaves, shutting the door behind herself carefully, and then it is just Bellamy sitting in front of the computer, entire body coiled tight with a dangerous combination of nerves and fear.

“Hold on one second, Bellamy,” Raven murmurs absently, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she focuses intently on what she's doing on her laptop. “Ah, there we go.”

The feed suddenly splits into two; on the left side he can see the wooden table at which the members of the National Security Council sits with Clarke's spot empty, and on the right is a black screen with just a play button in the center.

“Everybody ready?” Lincoln's trademark gruff voice asks. Murmured assents follow, and Lincoln clears his throat. “Play the video.”

Suddenly Clarke's face fills the right side of Bellamy's screen, and all the air in his lungs disappears as he drinks in the sight of her. Her hair is limp, thrown up into a messy bun, and her face has thinned out in a way that only someone who has really studied her would notice. She is wearing a slightly oversized gray hoodie. While her face and neck are unblemished by bruises— _thank God_ —there are dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't look anything like his Clarke, but somehow she still looks exactly like herself.

“ _My name is Clarke Griffin-Collins,”_ she begins, her voice raspy and painful to the ear. _“Today is Sunday, August sixth, 2016. I am alive. I have not been physically harmed. They've been treating me okay. I've been eating. Pretty balanced meals even. Plenty of protein. Ham sandwiches. Stuff like that._

“ _I'm surviving. I've read a couple books. Turns out The Iliad is worth the read. I should've listened to everyone who recommended that to me.”_ Bellamy feels tears burning at the back of his eyes as his heart swells in his chest. Clarke has been kidnapped and in constant danger for days, and she's worrying about sending messages to him? It's so typical of her that it aches.

“ _I want to come home. I want to sleep in my own bed and be with the people I love. So please, listen to what I say next. There are eight prisoners of war in Guantanamo Bay that my captors want to trade me for.”_ She proceeds to name the same eight men that Bellamy remembers from the Sterling Morgan video.

“ _Remember what_ I _fought for when the Sterling Morgan videos came out. Do what_ I _would do. You know it's the right choice, no matter how dangerous it may be to the parties involved. Do the right thing. I want to come home. Please make the trade. I miss you all. I love you. Be brave. Remember that sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Sometimes who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things.”_

The video cuts out abruptly, and the members of the Situation Room are completely silent as they let Clarke's message roll over them.

“We have to make the trade,” Finn speaks up.

“He's right,” Raven agrees dully. “We have to get her back. If there was a time to negotiate for prisoners to be released, it would be now.”

Bellamy's head snaps up. “Didn't any of you hear what she just said?” he snarls, glaring at the computer in front of him venomously. “She said to remember what _she_ fought for when the Sterling Morgan videos came out. She said to do what _she_ would do. Don't you remember _anything_ she's said? She was always completely against negotiating for a trade. She doesn't want us to try to trade for her. She doesn't want us to rescue her.”

 

*

 

Three hours later, the National Security Council still has not taken a break. Raven's impeccably styled ponytail is wilting, strands escaping at her temples and behind her ears. Lincoln has stripped off his tight suit jacket, pacing the length of the room over and over again. Finn sprawls in his chair and rubs at an old, forgotten stain on the end of his tie. Bellamy has slipped on his glasses to squint at the brightness of the screen in front of him, periodically texting Octavia vague updates to keep her from worrying too badly.

“I think it's time we hold them accountable,” Finn says. “I'm sick of being made to look like a pussy in front of the entire world. They kidnapped our soldiers and that was embarrassing enough, but to do that to my wife? I can't let that go.”

“What do you suggest?” Lincoln asks wearily, pausing in his pacing to rest his hands on the back of Raven's chair and look Finn dead in the eye.

“I want to mobilize the United States military,” Finn says firmly, not breaking eye contact. “My wife is being held captive somewhere in enemy territory, and it's about time we show them what the United States is made out of. They need to learn to pick on someone their own size.”

“Clarke isn't in the Middle East,” Bellamy speaks up roughly. “Or any other country, if I had to guess.”

Finn drops his mug and swears as the hot coffee seeps into his pants. “W-What?” he stammers. He gingerly dabs at his pants with a small napkin, wide eyes on Bellamy's blown up face on the screen at the front of the room.

“She mentioned eating ham sandwiches. Muslims don't eat pork, which means that she's more than likely in the United States. But almost certainly not in any of the Middle Eastern countries you so like to blame for all of our problems. I'd be willing to bet a million dollars on that.”

“Well, fuck,” Raven whistles. She sits back in her chair and props her head back on her hands. “That's a damn smart way of giving us clues.”

“She knew I would pick up on that,” Bellamy says heavily as he rubs his forehead.

“Hold on just a minute,” Finn blusters, still dabbing at his ruined slacks with a dumbfounded expression. “What real proof of that do we have? I think you're reading a lot into Clarke's words.”

“I think Bellamy's right,” Lincoln disagrees. He slips his hands into his pockets and gazes at the screen at the front of the room, where Clarke's frozen face stares back down at him. “It's a total Clarke move. Most people wouldn't pick up on that. It's brilliant.”

Finn sourly takes a giant swig of the remnants of his coffee, hissing when it burns the roof of his mouth. “I still think we need to weigh all of our options. It's about time we showed the world who they're messing with. I don't care if those kidnappers are from some Middle Eastern extremist group, North Korea, or our own damn country. It's time we use a show of force to put an end to this bullshit.”

“We get it, Finn,” Raven snaps. “You're a Republican. We know you're all for bombing the shit out of anything that moves.”

“Fuck you, Raven,” Finn retorts hotly.

“Hey now,” Lincoln firmly pacifies. “Arguing with each other is getting us nowhere.”

“All you've succeeded in doing is giving me a giant fucking migraine,” Bellamy grumbles in agreement.

“Fuck you too, Blake.” Despite the harshness of Raven's words, the delivery lacks its usual bite. She's tired. They all are.

“Any other ideas?” Lincoln asks in a rather desperate effort to move the conversation along.

“Maybe we should release the video to the public,” Raven suggests. “You know, incite tyranny of the mob. They'll castrate those fuckers.”

“We can't,” Bellamy interrupts before she can get any further. “If we release the video, then people are bound to pick up on some of the clues she dropped in it. If they start speculating and her kidnappers find out, then who knows what they'll do to Clarke. We can't risk that.”

Finn slams a hand on the table. “Then what do you suggest?” he howls. “You shoot down every single one of our ideas. What do you want us to do, Blake? Sit around and wait? Pray for her safe return? Cross our fingers that we get lucky and they decide to give her back? Move on? None of those options sound good to—”

Bellamy takes a deep breath. “Shut _up_ , Collins,” he interrupts sharply. “What I'm about to suggest is going to take some excellent politics to pull off. We're going to have to lie and cheat and deceive not only our enemies, but also the American people. We're going to use every resource in our possession, every secret weapon we have, to pinpoint their location. And then we're going to ambush them while they think we're cooperating and giving them what they want. We're going to make them think that we're going to release their prisoners. But we're not.

“I know this sounds frighteningly competent for you, Collins, which is why you're going to be playing the part of the distraught President while you let the grown ups do the real grunt work. This is the biggest task—the greatest risk—any of us have taken on in our time as public servants, and it's going to be hard. We need to accept right now that we might never rescue Clarke. But no one gets to toy with the government of the greatest nation on earth. We're going to come down on them hard and teach everyone who has ever tried to fuck with us that we are a force to be reckoned with. We will be smart, and we will be an even more capable opponent than these terrorists could have expected.

“So that,” Bellamy finishes, “is what we're going to do, Mr. President. So stop throwing temper tantrums and start acting like the leader we need you to step up to be.”

The National Security Council is silent, staring at Bellamy's pixelated face with mouths open. Bellamy sighs and runs a hand through his already mussed hair.

“Well, let's get moving,” he says gruffly. “Those terrorists aren't going to capture themselves.”

 

***

 

Overwhelming, paralyzing guilt. Clarke's vision tunnels as she collapses onto her crude bed, chest painfully tight and breath coming in gasps. She stares at the ceiling, blood rushing in her ears, dimly aware of Junior standing just inside the doorway, eying her unsurely.

What has she _done_? The words they spoon fed to her whirl through her mind on repeat, the sharp taste of the betrayal she has just committed intensifying with each echoing word. In her panicked stated, it's impossible for her to gauge what kind of damage she has just single-handedly done to her husband's administration. What if they actually release the prisoners of Guantanamo Bay?

And Bellamy. Hard-working, ferocious, determined Bellamy, who has undoubtedly been sacrificing everything in the effort to find her. She knows Bellamy, perhaps better than she knows herself, and she can only pray that he has picked up on the messages she managed to convey within her video. She can only pray that someone within the administration is allowing him to be involved in this process, that he is being shown the respect he deserves. If anyone can find her, she knows, deep in her bones, without a shadow of a doubt, that it is Bellamy Blake who will do so.

“Mixed feelings?”

Junior's words jolt Clarke out of her thoughts. Her eyes dart over to him in surprise. “You don't get to talk to me,” she snaps. “Do you know what you have done by forcing me into that?”

Junior moves to sit down, expression bland and unbothered by her tone of voice. He rocks his chair back onto two legs, thin lips pursed as he surveys her devastated form. “I'm just following orders,” he finally says. “It doesn't mean I like it.”

Clarke frowns and sits up, staring back at her captor. For the first time, it feels as though they are nearly on even playing field. “I guess we have something in common, then,” she murmurs, eyes not leaving his.

Junior takes a long swig from his water bottle before he breaks, ducking his head and fiddling with the book in his hand. He runs his tanned fingers over the cover, fidgets with the fraying corners. “I didn't grow up privileged, though,” he murmurs, so quietly that Clarke almost doesn't catch it.

She swallows, and it echoes in her ears in the silence that follows Junior's words. “Privileged,” she repeats.

“Privileged,” Junior agrees, unapologetic.

Clarke sighs, mulling over the best approach to his accusation. It certainly isn't the first time she has been hit with the accusation, but she has never been so bothered by the allegations that she has felt the need to justify herself to her opponents. She has always been secure in the knowledge of how hard she has worked for her accomplishments, and this is the first time when there has really been unbelievable pressure upon her to defend herself. “I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't have certain opportunities because of my parents and their money and stature in the community,” she begins carefully. “I went to great schools when I was growing up, hung around the right people, and managed not to screw up the life my parents had set up for me. But you have to realize something: Just because my life was a little easier than others in some aspects doesn't mean that I'm a horrible person who doesn't deserve everything I have achieved. I worked so, incredibly hard in school. I studied and studied until I got into one of the best schools in the country. When I got there, I studied and studied until I got into law school. Guess what I did then? I studied and studied so that I could finish at the top of my class. I can't tell you how many times I broke down in tears in the library after spending the entire night studying and still being so overwhelmed with how much I needed to get done. I can't tell you how many friendships and passions I have abandoned while trying to live up to the impossible expectations my parents had, and still continue to have, for me.

“I have learned everything anyone could ever need to know about how the political world works,” she continues. “I have given up my own career and my own dreams so that my husband could have a shot at becoming President. My marriage has become a loveless trap that I haven't felt happy in for years. When was the last time you can remember feeling truly, honestly happy?”

Junior bites his lip, twists his hands in front of him. “It isn't manly,” he warns apprehensively.

“Do you really think I care?”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “When I'm around my mom,” he admits, faint splotches of a ruddy blush appearing high up on his cheeks. “She's the only person who has ever really be interested in me, I think. It sounds stupid, I know.”

Clarke leans forward, heart in her throat. “It's not stupid,” she promises earnestly. “I know exactly what you mean. Really, I do. Except I never got that feeling from my mom. I got from a-a friend. Just recently.”

Junior furrows his brow, clarifying slowly, “You never got that from your mom?”

“No,” Clarke says with a bitter grimace, shaking her head. “My mom is a pusher. It's really, really hard to connect with someone who is constantly telling you that you can do better, that you should be doing better. Someone who is always disappointed in you, no matter how great your accomplishments are.”

“I know the feeling,” Junior mutters, expression souring.

“So yeah,” Clarke finishes, “I guess you could call my upbringing privileged. But I don't think that gave me some posh, perfect life at all. My struggles have just been different than yours.”

 

*

 

Roma Bragg never thought she would see the day when she would have a use for Bellamy Blake's phone number. They hadn't ended on bad terms, necessarily. Both entered the army at the same time, fresh out of high school but already jaded by their similarly rough upbringings, and the connection had been there from the start. The two had bonded over difficult drills, the stresses of being deployed, and the terrible things they had to do while in a war zone. They were young, though, and the simple fact is that fledgling love doesn't mesh well with war.

And so they broke up and went their separate ways, Roma changing her career path completely and moving back to Tucson to open up a small clothing boutique while Bellamy took up residence in the DC area. She married a nice, boring investment banker and had a kid. She joined the PTA, volunteered at her daughter's elementary school a few times each month, and started a book club. She coached her daughter's softball team and learned how to cook. Most of all, she worked hard on forgetting her army. Except for Bellamy Blake. She liked to keep tabs on him a little, just to make sure he was doing okay. She read the few online news clippings of his impressive promotions, and heard it through the military grapevine when he was promoted to a high position in the White House Secret Service. She was never tempted to contact him. That period in her life was long-over, after all. But she still didn't delete his number.

Monday mornings are always predictably slow at Roma's store, so she spends her time taking care of the chores she normally procrastinates, tidying up in the back room and emailing potential suppliers for winter clothing. She chats with a few of the customers who straggle in to browse the racks, snacks on some almonds, watches the news without paying all that much attention, and texts her husband. It's a normal Monday morning.

Roma empties the trash cans a little before noon and hauls the plastic bags out into the alleyway beside her boutique. The air is hot, already heavy with humidity, and her dark hair begins to frizz within seconds. She sighs, waving away a buzzing fly. A lone cat sits primly at the entrance to the alley, its amber eyes unsettling in their alertness as it watches Roma come closer. She knows the tabby. On the other side of her boutique is a small coffee shop-slash-bookstore, owned by a man about her age. He's quiet and has never really made an effort to get to know Roma, but she sees him feeding this stray cat almost every day. So he can't be a bad person, she reasons. After all, she could think of much worse neighbors than a quiet, antisocial one. And its not like his tiny coffee shop brings in a rowdy crowd.

The cat doesn't move as Roma skirts around it. Her pink flip flops smack against her heels as she maneuvers her way towards the big green dumpster tucked in the back of the alley, wrinkling her nose at the sickly sour smell of overheated trash.

Roma throws open the lid of the dumpster and throws the bags in one by one. She reaches up to pull the top down, but then pauses. Takes a double-take. Squinting, Roma moves closer, stench forgotten. Peeking out from underneath the trash bags is a piece of turquoise fabric, the kind of slippery workout material that, as the owner of a clothing store, Roma knows well. A hint of alarm bells goes off in her head at the unusual clothing item in a sea of plastic bags filled with old sales stickers and broken hangers, and Roma glances around the alley, suddenly nervous. She's still alone, save for the cat. It's still watching her. Creepy.

Roma scurries back into her store, returning to the trash can moments later with an empty trash bag. She uses it as a barrier between her hand and the fabric as she pulls it from beneath the garbage. Sure enough: in her hand is a wrinkled, slightly stained aquamarine exercise top. Roma frowns, settled. She isn't sure why the discarded shirt bothers her so much, but she surveys it critically as she carries it back into her boutique.

She is greeted by a startling burst of air conditioning and the voice of her favorite Tucson newscaster, a smiley young brunette woman who reminds Roma of herself at that age. Minus all of the killing in the army.

“...In national news,” the broadcaster is saying, her tone unnaturally somber and big brown eyes earnest, “First Lady Clarke Griffin-Collins is still missing after nearly two weeks. The search has been kept under wraps, but White House sources have assured the press that the federal government is deploying every resource at its fingertips in the search. Citizens are reminded to report any suspicious activity, however small, to the number at the bottom of the screen. Mrs. Griffin-Collins was last seen in a light blue athletic tank top, black yoga pants, and tennis shoes...”

Roma's heart stutters as she looks down at the tank top, recognition burning at the back of her eyelids. She has seen the security footage that has been played over and over again on the news: Clarke jogging through the streets of Palo Alto, dressed in her workout gear, worryingly oblivious to the world around her. The light blue tank top looks remarkably similar to the one Roma holds in her hands.

And so she uses the number she never thought she would again.

She calls Bellamy Blake.

 

*

 

Bellamy is in bed when his phone rings. His room is stuffy, in desperate need of an open window or two, and the lights are off. The only light comes from between the blinds. Bellamy is sprawled across his bed on his back, snoring loudly as his chest rises and falls heavily, naked except for a pair of dark gray boxers. His blankets are bunched around his bare feet at the bottom of the bed.

The ring of his phone is shrill and unforgiving, a startling contrast to the otherwise tranquil room. Bellamy wakes up with a rough gasp. He groans, head pounding. He reaches over to his nightstand, fumbling around and knocking over a full glass of water before he finally finds his phone.

“Fuck,” he hisses, squinting down at the wet spot on his carpet. He stabs at his phone to answer it without looking at the caller ID. “Hullo?”

“ _...Bellamy?_ ” The voice is unsure, softer and gentler than he remembers, but he would know it anywhere.

“Roma?” he asks, brown wrinkled in confusion. “W-What's goin' on?”

“ _You're in charge of the First Lady's security detail, right?_ ” Roma asks in a rush.

Bellamy pulls the phone away from his ear and stares down at it dumbly. Is he dreaming? “Uh, yeah,” he finally answers.

“ _I don't—I don't want to get your hopes up,_ ” she says, “ _but today I-I found a blue tank top in the trash bin outside of my store._ ”

“You found a blue tank top,” Bellamy echoes, unimpressed. “Where even are you?”

“ _Stop it. Let me finish,_ ” Roma reprimands. “ _I've been watching the news, Bellamy. I know what she was wearing, and you know I wouldn't be calling if I wasn't serious. I think—I think this might be something. Do you think she could be somewhere around Tucson?_ ”

“Tucson?” Bellamy bends over, resting his elbows on his knees and tugging at his tangled hair, eyes closed. “Can you, uh, send me a picture? Of the shirt?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Roma answers easily. “ _Just, ah, give me a minute, okay?_ ”

“Thank you,” Bellamy says, voice hoarse. “Thanks, Roma.”

She hangs up the call, and Bellamy falls back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Yet another migraine is starting behind his eyes, and he hasn't even been awake for ten minutes yet. He checks the time on his phone and moans, dragging himself out of bed and rifling through the clothes on his bedroom floor before he comes across a pair of wrinkled black sweatpants and a red t-shirt that doesn't smell too badly.

His phone dings with a text from Roma. He squints at the picture, a sick feeling bubbling in his stomach. If it isn't Clarke's top, then it sure looks like it.

Bellamy hurries out of his room, tripping slightly over the clutter that has accumulated. The living room is sunny and cool in contrast to his dim room, and his eyes water at the sudden brightness.

Octavia looks up from his couch, where she is wrapped in a pale green throw, her hair piled up on her head in a bun. The news is muted on his television and her laptop rests on her lap. Its stickers, frayed ones with stupid sayings and brightly colored designs, are a bit of home in this strange place. They're comforting.

“'Morning,” she says gently, eyes makeup-free and hopeful. “How are you feeling?”

“Roma found a blue exercise tank top,” Bellamy answers, collapsing on the couch next to his sister and handing her his phone. “In Tucson, I guess.”

“Roma,” Octavia repeats, expression unreadable. She frowns at the picture, zooming in to get a better look.

“It was in a trash bin in an alleyway,” Bellamy fills in.

“Bell,” Octavia says cautiously as she passes his phone back to him. “It could be something. I'm not going to deny that. But don't get your hopes up. There are a lot of blue workout shirts in the world.”

Bellamy looks at the picture again and rubs the bridge of his nose. “They keep track of the clothes in Clarke's closet, right?” he asks. “Would they be able to find the size and brand of the shirt?”

“I know they keep record of her clothes, yeah,” Octavia answers, pursing her lips in thought. “I'm not sure about casual stuff like this, but I can make some calls. See what I can find. In the mean time, I want you to get a good breakfast. You've been running yourself ragged with this search. I heard you come in last night after that video chat with Lincoln and the others. Four in the morning? You need to take care of yourself, too.”

Bellamy waves away her concerns. “I'm fine. Let me know if you find anything, okay?”

Octavia moves into Bellamy's room and begins tidying up as she mulls over the latest development. Back in DC, Clarke's wardrobe was often coordinated by her personal assistant, a sweet girl named Maya, with some help from Octavia due to Clarke's extreme disinterest in her wardrobe in general. Without Clarke's input, it was honestly a two-person job. Maya typically kept record of the clothes, their origin, price, and where Clarke wore them, but Octavia had never paid that much attention to that aspect of the job. She was more into giving Clarke fashion advice, not the bookkeeping part of the job. It was a lot less like job and much more of a fun hobby.

Maya answers her phone on the third ring. “ _Maya Vie._ ”

“Maya,” Octavia breathes out, a sudden fondness for her almost-friend overtaking her. “It's Octavia.”

Maya gasps a little. “ _Oh my goodness, how_ are _you? You're still in California?_ ”

“Yeah, I'm still here. It's been rough,” Octavia answers honestly, pulling up Bellamy's blinds and letting in a sudden burst of California sunlight. “Listen, we might have a lead, but I need you to do something for me.”

“ _Anything_ ,” Maya answers immediately.

“You keep track of Clarke's clothes, don't you? Do you write down her casual clothes, or just the formal ones she uses for different events?” Octavia sinks down onto Bellamy's bed.

“ _All of them,_ ” Maya replies easily. “ _Pajamas, shoes, athletic, Halloween costumes... You name it, I've got record of it._ ”

“So you'd know what brand and size that tank top is that Clarke was wearing when she was kidnapped?”

The line falls silent for a beat. “ _Yes,_ ” Maya finally says. “ _Give me a minute. I'm actually at the White House now. No one really knows what to do with me. It's not like I have any events to schedule or outfits to plan or projects to help out with...I've been helping out the President a bit since you left, but it's not the same. There are loads of people who are working to cover for you, so I'm just kind of useless._ ” She sniffles, and Octavia feels sudden sympathy for Maya. She has always been meek in a way that Octavia isn't, happily running to do Clarke's bidding, and Octavia hadn't considered how lost Maya must be without Clarke's constant guidance.

“Well, you're being very helpful to me,” Octavia says, unsure of how exactly to go about comforting Maya.

Maya gives a watery laugh. “ _When are you coming home? It's not nearly as efficient around here without you. Clarke's mom is so intimidating, honestly._ ”

“Soon, I think,” Octavia confides in her. “I can't spend much more time away from my job. It's already getting really unprofessional. Besides, it's not like there much more we can really do out here. It's dead ends everywhere we go. I think a big reason we're still here is because no one wants to admit that we might not find her.”

“ _Oh, God,_ ” Maya whimpers. “ _But you think this could be a lead?_ ”

“Bellamy seems to think so.”

“ _Clarke is so lucky to have such a dedicated team looking out for her,_ ” Maya murmurs. “ _They've really seemed to go above and beyond their line of duty for the past two weeks._ ”

“They're doing their best,” Octavia agrees quietly.

“ _Okay,_ ” Maya says, tone stronger. “ _I've got the books. You're looking for a workout top?_ ”

“A tank top,” Octavia tells her. “Blue. Racer back. You've seen the security footage, I'm assuming, right?”

“ _Oh, of course,_ ” Maya says. Octavia can hear pages flipping in the background of the phone call. “ _I remember I bought that one because I thought it would make her eyes look so nice... Here it is! Lululemon, size medium, sixty-eight dollars. Bought in January of 2016. She wore it to an event about ending childhood obesity and then also around the White House informally while she was exercising on her own._ ”

“Do you think you could send me a picture of the info?”

“For sure.”

“Thanks, Maya,” Octavia says gratefully. “You've been a big help.”

“Be careful,” Maya says. “Good luck.”

Octavia hangs up the phone and leaves Bellamy's room to find him sitting at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Any luck?” he asks, cautiously hopeful.

Octavia shows him the picture Maya sent her of one of the neat pages in one of her books of Clarke's clothes. Bellamy pulls up a picture on his own phone, one of the grimy tags from the tank top Roma found.

“They're the same,” Bellamy whispers, throat dry.

“Do you think...?”

“It's worth a shot,” he answers. “It's the closest thing we've gotten to a real lead in days.”

“Okay,” Octavia says, resting her hand on her brother's shoulder. “What next?”

“I guess we go to Tucson.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? I'm already working on Chapter 18, and I have a much better idea of where this story is going to go. For a long time I was just making it up as I went. (oops)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking it out with me! I hope I didn't lose to many of you.
> 
> Comments/kudos/bookmarks are a writer's greatest motivation ;)


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